Chair Pose Quotes

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Thomas smiled at my eye roll, puffing his chest up and standing with one foot proudly resting on a chair as if posing for a portrait. “I don’t blame you, I am rather attractive. The tall, dark hero of your dreams, swooping in to save you with my vast intellect. You should accept my hand at once.
Kerri Maniscalco (Stalking Jack the Ripper (Stalking Jack the Ripper, #1))
With a sigh, he grabbed hold of his chair and lifted himself out of it, then wrote on the blackboard: How will we ever get out of this labyrinth of suffering? - A.Y. 'I'm going to leave that up for the rest of the semester,' he said. 'Because everybody who has ever lost their way in life has felt the nagging insistence of that question. At some point we all look up and realize we are lost in a maze, and I don't want us to forget Alaska, and I don't want to forget that even when the material we study seems boring, we're trying to understand how people have answered that question and the questions each of you posed in your papers--how different traditions have come to terms with what Chip, in his final, called 'people's rotten lots in life.
John Green (Looking for Alaska)
I blew out a breath, took a couple steps back, and flopped in one of the battered chairs that line the wall, trying, with my casual pose, to defuse the situation. "Adam, I don't have a sense to be afraid of Sam in the state he's in now. I don't know why you think I'd be smart enough to be afraid of you.
Patricia Briggs (Silver Borne (Mercy Thompson, #5))
It’s hard to wear a Speedo and pose with an erection. Still, I’ve got to try, every Saturday from 9 am to 8:59 pm.
Jarod Kintz (So many chairs, and no time to sit)
There were two chairs, but there were three of us. So, being the gentleman I am, I got down on the ground on all fours in my chair pose so that then there were three chairs and three of us—with one extra seat to spare. I make love the same way—with more orgasms than people involved.
Jarod Kintz (Love quotes for the ages. Specifically ages 18-81.)
¡Un hombre que posee sabiduría no se sienta a esperar que el mundo aparezca ante él pedazo a pedazo para probar su existencia! Binabik
Tad Williams (The Dragonbone Chair (Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn, #1))
«She sat at the bow of a pleasure craft a stone's throw away, under the shade of a white parasol, a diligent tourist out to reap all the beauty and charm Copenhagen had to offer. She studied him with a distressed concentration, as if she couldn't quite remember who he was. As if she didn't want to. He looked different. His hair reached down to his nape, and he'd sported a full beard for the past two years. Their eyes met. She bolted upright from the chair. The parasol fell from her hand, clanking against the deck. She stared at him, her face pale, her gaze haunted. He'd never seen her like this, not even on the day he left her. She was stunned, her composure flayed, her vulnerability visible for miles. As her boat glided past him, she picked up her skirts and ran along the port rail, her eyes never leaving his. She stumbled over a line in her path and fell hard. His heart clenched in alarm, but she barely noticed, scrambling to her feet. She kept running until she was at the stern and could not move another inch closer to him (…) Gigi didn't move from her rigid pose at the rail, but she suddenly looked worn down, as if she'd been standing there, in that same spot, for all the eighteen hundred and some days since she'd last seen him. She still loved him. The thought echoed wildly in his head, making him hot and dizzy. She still loved him.»
Sherry Thomas (Private Arrangements (The London Trilogy #2))
She slid a slim volume of poetry off the shelf and returned to her chair, swishing her rather unnattractive skirts before she sat down. Benedict frowned. He'd never really noticed before how ugly her dress was. Not as bad as the one Mrs. Cabtree had lent her, but certainly not anything designed to bring out the best in a woman. He ought to buy her a new dress. She would never accept it,of course, but maybe if her current garments were accidentally burned... "Mr. Bridgerton?" But how could he manage to burn her dress? She'd have to not be wearing it, and that posed a certain challenge in and of itself... "Are you even listening to me?" Sophie demanded. "Hmmm?" "You're not listening to me." "Sorry," he admitted. "My apologies. My mind got away from me. Please continue." She began anew, and in his attempt to show how much attention he was paying her, he focused his eyes on her lips, which proved to be a big mistake. Because suddenly those lips were all he could see, and he couldn't stop thinking about kissing her, and he knew- absolutely knew-that if one of them didn't leave the room in the next thirty seconds, he was going to do something for which he'd owe her a thousand apologies. Not that he didn't plan to seduce her. Just that he'd rather do it with a bit more finesse. "Oh, dear," he blurted out. Sophie gave him an odd look. He didn't blame her. He sounded like a complete idiot. He didn't think he'd uttered the phrase, "Oh,dear," in years. If ever. Hell,he sounded like his mother. "Is something wrong?" Sophie asked. "I just remembered something," he said, rather stupidly, in his opinion. She raised her brows in question. "Something that I'd forgotten," Benedict said. "The things one remembers," she said, looking exceedingly amused, "are most often things one had forgotten.
Julia Quinn (An Offer From a Gentleman (Bridgertons, #3))
It’s only sixteen ninety-five," I say with a flutter of my lashes. "You’re serious." I prop my hands on my waist and stick out a hip, striking a pose worthy of a supermodel. "Look at me. Don’t I look serious?" She collapses into the chair outside the dressing room in a fit of giggles so cute they make my insides fizz. "No! You must be stopped," she says. "Why?" I strut down an aisle of yellowed lingerie, swiveling my hips, batting bras with flicks of my fingers. "I will be the king of the disco. I will be—" I spin and strike another pose. "An inspiration." She sniffs and swipes at her eyes. "The real Dylan would die before he’d be seen in public in something like that." "The real Dylan is boring." I brace my hands on the arms of her chair and lean down until our faces are a whisper apart. "And he’s not one fourth the kisser I am." "Is that right?" Her lips quirk. "You know it is." Her smile melts, and her breath comes faster. "Yeah. I do.
Stacey Jay (Romeo Redeemed (Juliet Immortal, #2))
Livvie has her own opinions and isn't afraid to voice them," he murmured. Tobias reclined in his chair in a deliberately casual pose. "So I've discovered." "And what will you do with your ... discovery?" "There is nothing to be done." "Many men would say she is unruly, headstrong, and disobedient. In need of a firm guiding hand." Was the man trying to persuade him to call off the rushed engagement? "Olivia is not a horse and I am not other men.
Stacy Reid (Wicked in His Arms (Wedded by Scandal, #2))
Tilting back in his chair he framed questions for the quaking ovoid of lamplight on the ceiling to pose to him: Supposing there be any soul to listen and you died tonight? They’d listen to my death. No final word? Last words are only words. You can tell me, paradigm of your own sinister genesis construed by a flame in a glass bell. I’d say I was not unhappy. You have nothing. It may be the last shall be first. Do you believe that? No. What do you believe? I believe that the last and the first suffer equally. Pari passu. Equally? It is not alone in the dark of death that all souls are one soul. Of what would you repent? Nothing. Nothing? One thing. I spoke with bitterness about my life and I said that I would take my own part against the slander of oblivion and against the monstrous facelessness of it and that I would stand a stone in the very void where all would read my name. Of that vanity I recant all.
Cormac McCarthy (Suttree)
One morning Jeanette, bucking Daddy on some point, hit on the argument probably every child in the world has used against his or her parents: 'I didn't ask to be born'. Daddy had an answer for it. 'I know you didn't ask to be born, honey, and as your father responsible for gettin' you into the world, I owe you something'. I owe you three hots and a cots, which is to say, I owe you three meals a day and a place to sleep. That's what I'm obliged for, and that's what I'm lookin' to see you get.' He nodded several times, overcome by the seriousness of this obligation, then leaned back in his chair with a curl to his mouth like a villain's mustache. ''Course, nobody says the meals has got to be chicken. S'pose I just give you bread and water? An' s'pose I let you sleep on the floor'? 'No, Daddy'! 'That's all I'm obliged for, honey. Everything else is gratis. Everything else I do for you is 'cause I want to, not 'cause I have to'. For days afterward, because Daddy had a tenacious mind of the sort that doesn't easily turn loose one idea and go on to another, he would set a plate in front of Jeanette with, 'See, I ain't obliged to give you this. I could give you bread and water and soup with just a little bit of fat floatin' in it, just to keep you alive. That's all I'm asked to give you. But you get more, right? You get this nice plateful, and I imagine when it comes to dessert, you'll have some of that, will you? All right, dessert, and all the other good stuff. But just remember, the good stuff I do for you is because I want to, because I'm your daddy and I love you and I want to, not because I have to'. The subtext to this was that it was not enough for us, the children, to behave in minimal ways either, that filial respect and dutifulness might be all that was basically required of us, but the good stuff, like doing well in school and sticking together as a family and paying attention to what Mommy and Daddy were trying to each us, we would do because we loved them and wanted them to love us.
Yvonne S. Thornton (The Ditchdigger's Daughters: A Black Family's Astonishing Success Story)
A late arrival had the impression of lots of loud people unnecessarily grouped within a smoke-blue space between two mirrors gorged with reflections. Because, I suppose, Cynthia wished to be the youngest in the room, the women she used to invite, married or single, were, at the best, in their precarious forties; some of them would bring from their homes, in dark taxis, intact vestiges of good looks, which, however, they lost as the party progressed. It has always amazed me - the capacity sociable weekend revelers have of finding almost at once, by a purely empiric but very precise method, a common denominator of drunkenness, to which everybody loyally sticks before descending, all together, to the next level. The rich friendliness of the matrons was marked by tomboyish overtones, while the fixed inward look of amiably tight men was like a sacrilegious parody of pregnancy. Although some of the guests were connected in one way or another with the arts, there was no inspired talk, no wreathed, elbow-propped heads, and of course no flute girls. From some vantage point where she had been sitting in a stranded mermaid pose on the pale carpet with one or two younger fellows, Cynthia, her face varnished with a film of beaming sweat, would creep up on her knees, a proffered plate of nuts in one hand, and crisply tap with the other the athletic leg of Cochran or Corcoran, an art dealer, ensconced, on a pearl-grey sofa, between two flushed, happily disintegrating ladies. At a further stage there would come spurts of more riotous gaiety. Corcoran or Coransky would grab Cynthia or some other wandering woman by the shoulder and lead her into a corner to confront her with a grinning imbroglio of private jokes and rumors, whereupon, with a laugh and a toss of her head, he would break away. And still later there would be flurries of intersexual chumminess, jocular reconciliations, a bare fleshy arm flung around another woman's husband (he standing very upright in the midst of a swaying room), or a sudden rush of flirtatious anger, of clumsy pursuit-and the quiet half smile of Bob Wheeler picking up glasses that grew like mushrooms in the shade of chairs. ("The Vane Sisters")
Vladimir Nabokov (American Fantastic Tales: Terror and the Uncanny from the 1940's Until Now)
This democracy we have is a precious thing. For all the arguments and all the doubts and all the cynicism that’s out there today, we should never forget that as Americans, we enjoy more freedoms and opportunities than citizens in any other nation on Earth. (Applause.) We are free to speak our mind and worship as we please. We are free to choose our leaders, and criticize them if they let us down. We have the chance to get an education, and work hard, and give our children a better life. None of this came easy. None of this was preordained. The men and women who sat in your chairs 10 years ago and 50 years ago and 100 years ago –- they made America possible through their toil and their endurance and their imagination and their faith. Their success, and America’s success, was never a given. And there is no guarantee that the graduates who will sit in these same seats 10 years from now, or 50 years from now, or 100 years from now, will enjoy the same freedoms and opportunities that you do. You, too, will have to strive. You, too, will have to push the boundaries of what seems possible. For the truth is, our nation’s destiny has never been certain. What is certain -– what has always been certain -– is the ability to shape that destiny. That is what makes us different. That is what sets us apart. That is what makes us Americans -– our ability at the end of the day to look past all of our differences and all of our disagreements and still forge a common future. That task is now in your hands, as is the answer to the question posed at this university half a century ago about whether a free society can still compete.
Barack Obama
Alvin lifted his toes and pushed both heels firmly into the asphalt until his folding metal chair thudded familiarly against the brick wall behind him. It did so in the same manner as on myriad other occasions. A manner that had caused his mother to scold him more times than he cared to remember. She had stopped bothering to do so months earlier however. By then, he'd transferred more beige paint to the bricks behind him than remained on the crossbar at the top of its backrest. At least that's what she told him soon before giving up. She would have likely been correct too, if not for the rain which so frequently showered the very same wall. In Alvin's keen mind, it was better this way. Once some unblemished new thing had lost its perfection he reasoned, it ceased posing a burden of concern ‒ particularly to observant mothers.
Monte Souder (Rat Luck)
Cuddy’s research showed that just assuming “power poses” or postures of high power (think Wonder Woman with her hands on her hips and legs firmly planted on the ground; or the guy in your office leaning back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, elbows out wide—you know the one) increased testosterone (the dominance hormone) by 20%, while simultaneously reducing cortisol (the major stress hormone) by 25%. The impact of this biochemical change immediately transforms your willingness to face fears and take risks.
Anthony Robbins (MONEY Master the Game: 7 Simple Steps to Financial Freedom)
Why can’t I have an ordinary footman like the other ladies have?” “Because you won’t always be going to the places other ladies go.” Gabriel sat on a chair to remove his shoes and stockings. “You’ll be looking for factory space, and meeting with suppliers, retailers, and wholesale traders, and so forth. If you take Drago with you, it will ease my mind about your safety.” As he saw the mulish set of Pandora’s jaw, Gabriel decided to take another tack. “Of course, we’ll replace him if you wish,” he said with a casual shrug. He began to unfasten the buttons of his braces. “But it would be a pity. Drago grew up in an orphanage and has no family. He’s always lived in a small room at the club. He was looking forward to living in a real household for the first time in his life, and seeing what family life was like.” That last sentence was pure conjecture, but it did the trick. Pandora sent him a long-suffering glance and heaved a sigh. “Oh, all right. I suppose I’ll have to keep him. And train him not to scare people.” Dramatically she fell backward on the bed, arms and legs akimbo. Her small, glum voice floated up to the ceiling. “My very own footmonster.” Gabriel regarded the small, splayed figure on the bed, feeling a rush of mingled amusement and lust that made his breath catch. Before another second had passed, he’d climbed over her, crushing her mouth with his. “What are you doing?” Pandora asked with a spluttering laugh, twisting beneath him. “Accepting your invitation.” “What invitation?” “The one you gave me by reclining on the bed in that seductive pose.” “I flopped backward like a dying trout,” she protested, squirming as he began to hike up her skirts. “You knew I wouldn’t be able to resist.” “Take a bath first,” she implored. “You’re not fit for the house. I should take you out to the stables and scrub you like one of the horses, with carbolic soap and a birch brush.” “Oh, you naughty girl . . . yes, let’s do that.” His hand wandered lecherously under her skirts. Pandora yelped with laughter and wrestled him. “Stop, you’re contaminated! Come to the bathroom and I’ll wash you.” He pinned her down. “You’ll be my bath handmaiden?” he asked provocatively. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” “I would,” he whispered, touching his tongue to the center of her lower lip. Her dark blue eyes were bright with mischief. “I’ll bathe you, my lord,” she offered, “but only if you agree to keep your hands to yourself, and remain as still and stiff as a statue.” “I’m already as stiff as a statue.” He nudged her to demonstrate. Pandora rolled out from under him with a grin and headed toward the bathroom, while he followed readily.
Lisa Kleypas (Devil in Spring (The Ravenels, #3))
Je remonte les rues. Je pose des vestes chaudes sur les murmures. J'ai pris l'éternité au milieu des regards. Toutes les fessées du monde cognent à ma chair. Trouverai-je des oiseaux à ma taille? Vivre est une fêlure qu'embrassent mes lèvres.
Anne Peyrouse (Des neiges et des cendres: Poésie)
The two or three antique chairs had apparently been chosen for their bizarre design and not for their ability to seat anyone, for they were delicate suggestions, hints at furniture with cushions barely capable of accommodating a child. A human in such a room was expected not to rest or sit or even relax, but rather pose, thereby transforming himself into a human furnishing that would complement the decor as well as possible.
Anonymous
I have here Alaska’s final. You’ll recall that you were asked what the most important question facing people is, and how the three traditions we’re studying this year address that question. This was Alaska’s question.” With a sigh, he grabbed hold of his chair and lifted himself out of it, then wrote on the blackboard: How will we ever get out of this labyrinth of suffering? —A. Y. “I’m going to leave that up for the rest of the semester,” he said. “Because everybody who has ever lost their way in life has felt the nagging insistence of that question. At some point we all look up and realize we are lost in a maze, and I don’t want us to forget Alaska, and I don’t want to forget that even when the material we study seems boring, we’re trying to understand how people have answered that question and the questions each of you posed in your papers—how different traditions have come to terms with what Chip, in his final, called ‘people’s rotten lots in life.
John Green (Looking for Alaska)
There were two chairs, but there were three of us. So, being the gentleman I am, I got down on the ground on all fours in my chair pose so that then there were three chairs and three of us—with one extra seat to spare. I make love the same way—with more orgasms than people involved.

Jarod Kintz (Love quotes for the ages. Specifically ages 18-81.)
Dr. Harpe, glancing through her window, read purpose in his stride as he came down the street. Her green eyes took on the gleam of battle and to doubly fortify herself she wrenched open her desk drawer and filled a whiskey glass to the brim. When she had drained it without removing it from her lips she drew her shirtwaist sleeve across her mouth to dry it, in a fashion peculiarly her own. Then she tilted her desk chair at a comfortable angle and her crossed legs displayed a stocking wrinkled in its usual mosquetaire effect. She was without her jacket but wore a man's starched piqué waistcoat over her white shirtwaist, and from one pocket there dangled a man's watch-fob of braided leather. She threw an arm over the chair-back and toyed with a pencil on her desk, waiting in this studied pose of nonchalance the arrival of Symes. The
Caroline Lockhart (The Lady Doc)
Oh, they’ll catch them,” said Walters. “Catch ’em? Catch ’em?” Porter was astounded. “You out of your fuckin mind? They’ll catch ’em, all right, and give ’em a big party and a medal.” “Yeah. The whole town planning a parade,” said Nero. “They got to catch ’em.” “So they catch ’em. You think they’ll get any time? Not on your life!” “How can they not give ’em time?” Walters’ voice was high and tight. “How? Just don’t, that’s how.” Porter fidgeted with his watch chain. “But everybody knows about it now. It’s all over. Everywhere. The law is the law.” “You wanna bet? This is sure money!” “You stupid, man. Real stupid. Ain’t no law for no colored man except the one sends him to the chair,” said Guitar. “They say Till had a knife,” Freddie said. “They always say that. He could of had a wad of bubble gum, they’d swear it was a hand grenade.” “I still say he shoulda kept his mouth shut,” said Freddie. “You should keep yours shut,” Guitar told him. “Hey, man!” Again Freddie felt the threat. “South’s bad,” Porter said. “Bad. Don’t nothing change in the good old U.S. of A. Bet his daddy got his balls busted off in the Pacific somewhere.” “If they ain’t busted already, them crackers will see to it. Remember them soldiers in 1918?” “Ooooo. Don’t bring all that up….” The men began to trade tales of atrocities, first stories they had heard, then those they’d witnessed, and finally the things that had happened to themselves. A litany of personal humiliation, outrage, and anger turned sicklelike back to themselves as humor. They laughed then, uproariously, about the speed with which they had run, the pose they had assumed, the ruse they had invented to escape or decrease some threat to their manliness, their humanness. All but Empire State, who stood, broom in hand and drop-lipped, with the expression of a very intelligent ten-year-old.
Toni Morrison (Song of Solomon)
On the other stage, there was a girl who looked like a mix of Japanese and something Mediterranean or Latin. A good mix. She had that silky, almost shimmering black hair so many modern Japanese women like to ruin with chapatsu dye, worn short and swept over from the side. The shape of the eyes was also Japanese, and she was on the petite side. But her skin, a smooth gold like melted caramel, spoke of something else, something tropical. Her breasts and hips, too, appealingly full and slightly incongruous on her Japanese-sized frame, suggested some foreign origin. She was using the pole skillfully, grabbing it high, posing with her body held rigid and parallel to the floor, then spiraling down in time to the music. There was real vitality in her moves and she didn’t seem to mind that most of the patrons were focused on the blonde. Mr. Ruddy held out a chair for me at an empty table in the center of the room. After a routine glance to ensure the seat afforded a proper view of the entrance, I sat. I wasn’t displeased to see that I also had a good view of the stage where the dark-haired girl was dancing. “Wow,” I said in English, looking at her. “Yes, she is beautiful,” he replied, also in English. “Would you like to meet her?” I watched her for another moment before answering. I didn’t want to wind up with one of the Japanese girls here. I would have a better chance of creating rapport, and therefore of eliciting information, by chatting with a foreigner while playing the role of foreigner. I nodded.
Barry Eisler (A Lonely Resurrection (John Rain #2))
Jake flattened the knife against the wall, filling the crevice. It was all he could do to smother a grin. He didn’t know which he’d enjoyed more, spending a couple hours alone with the kids or finding new ways to provoke Meridith. And to think he was getting paid. Maybe once she went back outside, the kids would come down and pretend to play a game at the kitchen bar while they talked. He could hear Meridith talking to them now, asking them about the game they’d supposedly been playing, acting all interested in their activities. If she really cared about them, she wouldn’t be ripping the kids from Summer Place just so she could go back and live happily ever after with her fiancé. And he was pretty sure that’s what she was planning. Their voices grew louder, then Jake saw them all descending the steps. Noelle led the pack, carrying her Uno cards, followed by the boys, then Meridith. Noelle winked on her way past. Little imp. The kids perched at the bar, and he heard the cards being shuffled. Dipping his knife into the mud, Jake sneaked a peek. Meridith was opening the dishwasher. Great. Ben kept turning to look at him, and Jake discreetly shook his head. Even though Meridith faced the other way, no need to be careless. “Noelle, you haven’t said anything about your uncle lately. He hasn’t e-mailed yet?” He felt three pairs of eyes on his back. He hoped Meridith was shelving something. Jake smoothed the mud and turned to gather more, an excuse to appraise the scene. Meridith’s back was turned. He gave the kids a look. “Uh, no, he hasn’t e-mailed.” “Or called or nothing,” Max added. Noelle silently nudged him, and Max gave an exaggerated shrug. What? “Well, let me know when he does. I don’t want to keep pestering you.” “Sure thing,” Noelle said, dealing the cards. Her eyes flickered toward him. “I was thinking we might go for a bike ride this evening,” Meridith said. “Maybe go up to ’Sconset or into town. You all have bikes, right?” “I forgot to tell you,” Noelle said. “I’m going to Lexi’s tonight. I’m spending the night.” “Who’s Lexi?” “A friend from church. You met her mom last week.” A glass clinked as she placed it in the cupboard. “Noelle, I’m not sure how things were . . . before . . . but you have to ask permission for things like this. I don’t even know Lexi, much less her family.” “I know them.” “Have you spent the night before?” “No, but I’ve been to her house tons of times.” He heard a dishwasher rack rolling in, another rolling out, the dishes rattling. “Why don’t we have her family over for dinner one night this week? I could get to know them, and then we’ll see about overnight plans.” “This is ridiculous. They go to our church, and her mom and my mom were friends!” Noelle cast him a look. See? she said with her eyes. Did Meridith think Eva would jeopardize her daughter’s safety? The woman was neurotic. Jake clamped his teeth together before something slipped out. “Just because they go to church doesn’t necessarily make them safe, Noelle. It wouldn’t be responsible to let you spend the night with people I don’t know. You never know what goes on behind closed doors.” “My mom would let me.” The air seemed to vibrate with tension. Jake realized his knife was still, flattened against the wall, and he reached for more mud. Noelle was glaring at Meridith, who’d turned, wielding a spatula. Was she going to blow it? To her credit, the woman drew a deep breath, holding her temper. “Maybe Lexi could stay all night with you instead.” “Well, wouldn’t that pose a problem for her family, since they don’t know you?” Despite his irritation with Meridith, Jake’s lips twitched. Score one for Noelle. “I suppose that would be up to her family.” He heard Noelle’s cards hit the table, her chair screech across the floor as she stood. “Never mind.” She cast Meridith one final glare, then exited through the back door, closing it with a hearty slam.
Denise Hunter (Driftwood Lane (Nantucket, #4))
Nous avons déjà parlé de la notion temporelle propre à chaque saison, l'été étant l'époque où il ne faut plus attendre, quand la récolte est mûre, pour la recueillir. J'ai ainsi connu des étés bretons où les pluies risquaient de gâcher le travail de toute une année; les Recteurs, en chaire, autorisaient exceptionnellement le travail le dimanche. Cette période de récolte n'est pas une phase tranquille où il suffit de contempler les champs de blé mûr, mais une période de travail impératif pour mettre la récolte à l'abri à temps. Les cultivateurs de l'époque -- comme maintenant -- n'avaient pas toujours leur temps normal de sommeil; l'été, quand il fallait suivre les battages de ferme en ferme, les paysans finissaient à la nuit pour reprendre à l'aube dans la ferme suivante, ce qui ne les empêchait pas, d'ailleurs, d'aller au bal le samedi et d'y gagner une nouvelle nuit blanche. La récolte n'attends pas, « quand le vin est tiré, il faut le boire » ; si le fruit du travail psychologique n'est pas engrangé en temps voulu, il risque d'être perdu. Psychologiquement, on peut dire que si le sujet ne prends pas conscience de certains progrès, de certains évolutions, aux moments où ceux-ci se présentent, ils risquent d'être perdus et de repartir dans l'inconscient. Il faudra un nouveau cycle pour retrouver à nouveau les solutions négligées. Il est nécessaire de reconnaître que les choses ont changé. Ainsi, en faisant avec quelqu'un le bilan d'une année d'entretiens et en se reportant aux problèmes qui se posaient un an plus tôt, il est possible de mesurer le chemin parcouru, de s'apercevoir que des problèmes, cruciaux alors, sont pasés au second plan et ont été résolus. Il est permis d'espérer que les nouvelles questions qui se posent trouveront elles aussi leurs réponses. Ainsi, le sujet n'a pas l'impression de nager continuellement dans la même problématique, comme s'il tournait en rond, et pourra même découvrir que si certains questions reviennent à l'ordre du jour, elles le font selon un mouvement spirale qui ne pose plus de problèmes de la même façon que l'année précédente. C'est la prise de conscience du chemin parcouru hier qui peut donner le courage d'en entreprendre un nouveau demain.
Marie-Claire Dolghin-Loyer
So, tell me, what did you think of my Bram?” Abigail asked as she settled herself in the chair, looking as if she fully intended to stay for a while. “Don’t you think we should discuss your daughter first?” Abigail immediately turned stubborn. “Not particularly. There’s nothing much to say about Iris other than that she loathes me and we don’t share an amicable relationship. Now Bram, on the other hand, is a delightful subject to speak about.” Lucetta settled into the bubbles. “Why do you imagine he was wearing that patch when there’s evidently nothing wrong with his eye?” “It was so gallant of him to whisk you into the castle and bring you up to this tower room, wasn’t it?” Abigail countered, as if Lucetta hadn’t posed a question. “Do you believe he enjoys assuming a pirate persona when he’s at his leisure? Although . . . now that I consider the matter, what does he do when he’s not at his leisure?” Lucetta countered right back. Abigail crossed her arms over her chest and immediately took to looking a little grumpy. “I’m not exactly certain what Bram does, dear. My son-in-law, Phillip—Bram’s father—made a rather large fortune when he invested in a sugar plantation years ago down in Cuba. Because of that fortune, Bram, along with his brother and sister, aren’t required to pursue professions, or make advantageous marriages, although . . . I’m sure Bram does something to occupy his time.” “And
Jen Turano (Playing the Part (A Class of Their Own, #3))
Sometimes, when he was alone, he sat in the Doge’s chair, as it was always called, leaning forward on the edge of the seat, his right hand clasping one of the intricately carved arms, striking a pose he remembered from the Illustrated History of England he had been given at prep school. The picture portrayed Henry V’s superb anger when he was sent a present of tennis balls by the insolent King of France.
Edward St. Aubyn (The Complete Patrick Melrose Novels)
This time, Reggie caught him by surprise. More precisely, she climbed up to his balcony again and knocked at his window while he was trying to translate another page of Janet’s diary. Colin snapped his head around and saw a white human form. He was on his feet in an instant, knocking the chair over and then kicking it out of the way, feeling the energy of transformation begin to crackle along his bones. Then he saw Reggie’s face. When he opened the door to the balcony, any impulse to leave human form had subsided, but his heart was still pounding away in his throat. He was leaning against the balcony in an outwardly casual pose, but Reggie nonetheless looked back at him with her dark eyes wide. “Maybe I shouldn’t surprise you, in the future” she said. “Not in this house,” said Colin. “I’m a terribly placid chap in most circumstances, I assure you.” “Ha,” said Reggie, and stepped inside at his gesture of invitation.
Isabel Cooper (The Highland Dragon's Lady (Highland Dragon, #2))
Use Garudasana arms as well as the chair stretch illustrated below to prepare the shoulders. Work toward doing the pose without props. Walk one foot forward to shift the weight and center of gravity over the shoulders and forearms. Then
Ray Long (Anatomy for Arm Balances and Inversions: Yoga Mat Companion 4)
MATCHING YOGA-BASED STRATEGIES TO GOALS FOR INTERVENTION Challenge Goal Chair-based Yoga Posture Feeling frozen, rigid, holding on to things (hoarding, constipation) Letting go Forward Fold Anxiety, tension, panic Decreasing hyperarousal Neck Rolls, Ratio Breathing, Belly Breathing Isolation Building relationship Mirrored mindful integrated movement; group practice Defensiveness, avoidance of intimacy Opening boundaries Sun Breaths Dissociation Grounding Mountain pose, noticing feet on floor Feeling off-balance, conflicting feelings Centering Seated Twist, Seated Triangle, Seated Eagle, balanced movement, bringing awareness to core Emotionally overwhelmed, unprotected Containment Child’s pose (adapted) Stuck, unable to make decisions or take action, unable to defend self Unfreezing; reorganizing active defenses Movement-based postures Somatic dissociation, emotional numbing Awareness of body Any mindfulness practice Reenactments, revictimization Boundaries Sensing body, creating physical boundaries Feeling helpless, disempowered Empowerment (feeling core power) Lengthening spine, Leg lifts, moving to standing posture Emotionally numb or shut down, low energy Decreasing hypoarousal Activating postures (standing), breathwork
David Emerson (Overcoming Trauma through Yoga: Reclaiming Your Body)
In the chamber, [Frances Hamling] sat close to her husband [William Hamling, about to go before the US Supreme Court on 4/15/74], trying to repress the anxiety she felt about his future. Four years in prison and $87,000 in fines was hardly a matter of casual contemplation. Since nobody was supposed to speak or even whisper in the chamber, she diverted herself by glancing around at the room's opulent interior, the impressive bone-white china columns and red velvet draperies that formed the background behind the polished judicial bench and high black leather chairs. A gold clock hung down from between two pillars, signaling that it was 9:57 a.m. -- a few minutes before the justices' scheduled arrival. Along the upper edge of the front of the room, close to the top of the forty-four-foot ceiling, Frances noticed an interesting, voluptuous section of Classical art: It was a golden beige marble frieze that extended across the width of the room and showed about twenty nude and seminude men, women, and children gathered in various poses. The figures symbolized the embodiment of human wisdom and truth, righteousness, and virtue; but the bodies to her could as easily have represented an assemblage of Roman hedonists or orgiasts, and it struck her as ironic that such a scene should be hovering over the heads of the jurists who would be questioning her husband's use of illustrations in the Presidential Report on Obscenity and Pornography.
Gay Talese (Thy Neighbor's Wife)
Alma could not feel the absurdity of this, and she merely said, "'Every Other Week' seems to be going on just the same as ever." "Yes, the trouble has all blown over, I believe. Fulkerson," said Beaton, with a return to what they were saying, "has managed the whole business very well. But he exaggerates the value of my advice." "Very likely," Alma suggested, vaguely. "Or, no! Excuse me! He couldn't, he couldn't!" She laughed delightedly at Beaton's foolish look of embarrassment. He tried to recover his dignity in saying, "He's 'a very good fellow, and he deserves his happiness." "Oh, indeed!" said Alma, perversely. "Does any one deserve happiness?" "I know I don't," sighed Beaton. "You mean you don't get it." "I certainly don't get it." "Ah, but that isn't the reason." "What is?" "That's the secret of the universe," She bit in her lower lip, and looked at him with eyes, of gleaming fun. "Are you never serious?" he asked. "With serious people always." "I am serious; and you have the secret of my happiness—" He threw himself impulsively forward in his chair. "Oh, pose, pose!" she cried. "I won't pose," he answered, "and you have got to listen to me. You know I'm in love with you; and I know that once you cared for me. Can't that time—won't it—come back again? Try to think so, Alma!" "No," she said, briefly and seriously enough. "But that seems impossible. What is it I've done what have you against me?" "Nothing. But that time is past. I couldn't recall it if I wished. Why did you bring it up? You've broken your word. You know I wouldn't have let you keep coming here if you hadn't promised never to refer to it." "How could I help it? With that happiness near us—Fulkerson—" "Oh, it's that? I might have known it!" "No, it isn't that—it's something far deeper. But if it's nothing you have against me, what is it, Alma, that keeps you from caring for me now as you did then? I haven't changed." "But I have. I shall never care for you again, Mr. Beaton; you might as well understand it once for all. Don't think it's anything in yourself, or that I think you unworthy of me. I'm not so self-satisfied as that; I know very well that I'm not a perfect character, and that I've no claim on perfection in anybody else. I think women who want that are fools; they won't get it, and they don't deserve it. But I've learned a good deal more about myself than I knew in St. Barnaby, and a life of work, of art, and of art alone that's what I've made up my mind to." "A woman that's made up her mind to that has no heart to hinder her!" "Would a man have that had done so?" "But I don't believe you, Alma. You're merely laughing at me. And, besides, with me you needn't give up art. We could work together. You know how much I admire your talent. I believe I could help it—serve it; I would be its willing slave, and yours, Heaven knows!" "I don't want any slave—nor any slavery. I want to be free always. Now do you see? I don't care for you, and I never could in the old way; but I should have to care for some one more than I believe I ever shall to give up my work. Shall we go on?" She looked at her sketch. "No, we shall not go on," he said, gloomily, as he rose. "I suppose you blame me," she said, rising too. "Oh no! I blame no one—or only myself. I threw my chance away.
William Dean Howells (A Hazard of New Fortunes)
We get the idea from books and television that the courthouse is a theater, the trial a play. The better analogy is a huge tent with a three-ring circus inside. The judge is the ringmaster, wielding his chair, cracking his whip, forcing the lions onto their haunches in mock-serious poses of respect. We rise when the judge enters and exits, and we beg for permission before we speak. The judge feeds us when we are good, chastises us when we are bad, and either way we bow our heads in meek gratitude.
Paul Levine (Flesh and Bones (Jake Lassiter #7))
A throat cleared. “Earth to Arik. Come in, boss.” With brows drawn, Arik glared at his beta. “What?” “I was asking what had your boxers in a knot.” “You know I go commando.” “Usually, but something obviously has your panties in a twist. Spill.” Oh, he spilled all right. Arik yanked off the hat and flung it against the wall and then swiveled his chair to get it over with. Indrawn breath. A snicker. A full-on guffaw. Arik swirled again and tossed deadly visual daggers at his second. “I fail to see the humor in my butchered mane.” “Dude. Have you seen it? It is bad. What did you do to piss Dominic off? Seduce one of his daughters?” “Actually one of his granddaughters did this to me!” He couldn’t help the incredulous note. The effrontery of the act still got to him. A thump and a shake of the wall as Hayder hit it, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “A girl did that to you?” His beta convulsed with mirth, not at all daunted by Arik’s glower and tapping fingers. “This is not amusing.” “Oh, come on, dude. Of all the people to have a hair mishap, you are the worst.” “I look like an idiot.” “Only because you didn’t let her finish hacking the rest off.” His fingers froze as he took his gaze off the screen for a moment to address the travesty. “Cut off my mane?” Was his beta delusional? “Well, yeah. You know, to even it out so it doesn’t show.” A growl rumbled forth, more beast than man, his lion not at all on board with any more trimming. “Okay, if you’re not keen on that, then what about a hair weave? Maybe we could get you a platinum one, or pink for contrast since you’re being such a prissy princess about it.” That did it. A lion could take only so much. Arik dove over his desk and tackled his beta. Over they went with a thump and a tangle of limbs. As he was slamming Hayder’s head off the floor, snarling, “Take it back!” to his beta’s chortled, “We’ll get your nails done while they’re weaving,” Leo strode in. A giant of a man, he didn’t even have to strain as he grabbed them each by a shoulder and yanked them apart. But he didn’t stop there. He slammed their heads together before shoving them down. Arik and Hayder sat on the carpeted floor, nursing robin’s eggs, united in their glare for the pride’s omega, also known as the peacemaker. Of course, Leo’s version of peace wasn’t always gentle, which was why he was perfect for the pride. The behemoth with the mellow outlook on life took a seat in a chair, which groaned ominously. “You do know that the staff two floors down can hear the pair of you acting like ill-behaved cubs.” “He started it!” Arik stabbed a finger at his beta. He had no problem assigning blame. Delegation was something an alpha did well. Hayder didn’t even deny his guilt. “I did. But can you blame me? He was pissing and moaning about this precious mane. All I did was offer a solution, and he took offense.” “I assume we’re talking about the missing chunk of hair on our esteemed leader’s head?” Leo shook his neatly trimmed dark crown. “I keep telling you that vanity is your weakness.” “And chocolate chip ice cream is yours. We all have our vices,” Arik grumbled as he heaved himself off the floor and into his leather-padded seat— with built-in heating pad and massager because a man in his position did enjoy his luxuries. “My vice is beautiful women,” Hayder announced with a grin, adopting a lounging pose on the floor. Felines were king when it came to acting as if embarrassing positions weren’t accidental at all. “Don’t talk to me about women right now. I’m still angry at the one who did this.” “I think I’m missing a key point,” Leo stated. It didn’t take long to bring Leo up to speed. To his credit, the pride omega didn’t laugh— long.
Eve Langlais (When an Alpha Purrs (A Lion's Pride, #1))
Two things have to happen in order for the spine to be in optimum alignment. First, your foundation (the parts of the body in contact with your cushion, bench, or chair) must be evenly and efficiently grounded. Next, your spinal curves must be intact.
Charlotte Bell (Yoga for Meditators: Poses to Support Your Sitting Practice (Rodmell Press Yoga Shorts))
academic chair the following year. In his account of what happened, Lessing acknowledged he could do nothing to prevent being “shouted down, threatened and denigrated” by student activists. He was helpless, he said, “against the murderous bellowing of youngsters who accept no individual responsibilities but pose as spokesman for a group or an impersonal ideal, always talking in the royal ‘we’ while hurling personal insults . . . and claiming that everything is happening in the name of what’s true, good and beautiful.”11 This was fascism, German style, in the 1920s. In March 2017, the eminent political scientist Charles Murray—a former colleague of mine at the American Enterprise Institute—showed up to give a lecture on class divisions in American society at a progressive bastion, Middlebury College in Vermont. Hundreds of protesters gathered outside McCullough Student Center where Murray was scheduled to speak and engage in dialogue with Middlebury political scientist Allison Stanger. Murray is a libertarian who
Dinesh D'Souza (The Big Lie: Exposing the Nazi Roots of the American Left)
I’m going to focus on your hands, Mr. Harrison. Hands can be complicated.” He smiled as if she’d just explained to the Archbishop of Canterbury that Christmas often fell on the twenty-fifth of December. “I like hands,” he said, taking his seat. “They can be windows to the soul too. What shall I do with these hands you intend to immortalize?” She hadn’t thought that far ahead, it being sufficient challenge to choose a single aspect of him to sketch. Fleur and Amanda came skipping back into the room, each clutching a sketch pad. “You will sketch the girls, and I will sketch you, while the girls sketch whomever they please.” The plan was brilliant; everybody had an assigned task. Amanda’s little brows drew down. “I want to watch Mr. Harrison. Fleur can sketch you, Aunt Jen. You have to sit very still, though.” “An unbroken chain of artistic indulgence,” Mr. Harrison said, accepting a sketch pad and pencil from Fleur. “Miss Fleur, please seat yourself on the hearth, though you might want a pillow to make the ordeal more comfortable.” Amanda grabbed two burgundy brocade pillows off the settee, tossed one at Fleur, and dropped the other beside Elijah’s rocker. Jenny took the second rocking chair and flipped open her sketch pad. Her subject sat with the morning sun slanting over his shoulder, one knee crossed over the other, the sketch pad on his lap. Amanda watched from where she knelt at his elbow, and Fleur… Fleur crossed one knee over the other—an unladylike pose, but effective for balancing a sketch pad—and glowered at Jenny as if to will Jenny’s image onto the page by visual imperative. “Your sister has beautiful eyebrows,” Mr. Harrison said to his audience. “They have the most graceful curve. It’s a family trait, I believe.” Amanda crouched closer. “Does that mean I have them too?” He glanced over at her, his expression utterly serious. “You do, though yours are a touch more dramatic. When you make your bows, gentlemen will write sonnets to the Carrington sisters’ eyebrows.” “Papa’s
Grace Burrowes (Lady Jenny's Christmas Portrait (The Duke's Daughters, #5; Windham, #8))
I’ve got a better idea,” says my mother. “Tell me about what you did today. Tell me about New York.” So I do, I tell the lifelong New Yorker who chucked it for the woods about the streets of the city: how the subway was so crowded this morning I had to let four trains pass in a row and I was a half hour late to work; how I had a meeting in Times Square and I saw an army of painted topless women posing with tourists for money; how I saw two people dressed up as Disney characters get into a fistfight; how I ate a hot dog from a stand after my client meeting bombed and when I finished it I ate another, on one of the chairs scattered in Bryant Park. A string quartet was playing nearby, under a sponsor banner. “The music part was the part that saved me,” I say. “All of it would have saved me,” says my mother.
Jami Attenberg (All Grown Up)
Gentlemen, thank you for waiting, and you too, Mom, Janice," Avery said, giving his mom a warm smile before he continued. He didn't take his chair. Instead, he stood at the head of the table, looking down the row of people. "I've met a man, not a woman. Someone I see a long-term future with." Avery kept his gaze focused, looking each person in the eye, refusing to look at his mother. This would mean more to her. He'd wait to talk this through with her later. "They discussed this with you from the beginning, Mr. Adams. You can't be openly gay and have any chance of winning," Mr. Joslin said. "I understand that, but it doesn't change the facts," Avery argued. "Do you understand what we are telling you? There is no way you would be supported if you ran as a gay man. How long could you have possibly known him if you talked about this before and he wasn't a factor?" Mr. Joslin asked. "The length of the relationship isn't important," Avery replied. "So we hide him. You aren't the only gay man in office. We can find a nice filler woman to stand in. No one has to know…" Mr. Freeport was on a roll, the other two nodding along with him. He could see their minds ticking away with the possibilities. "I'm not interested in hiding him. I'm not unsympathetic to the complications this poses or unfamiliar with the odds of running a viable campaign as a homosexual. Regardless, it doesn't change the facts, I refuse to hide him." Avery left no further room for discussion on the subject. "Avery…" Kennedy Adams said from across the table. Finally, he looked over at her, and based on the look in her eyes, he couldn't tell where she was headed with her line of thinking, but whatever she had to say, needed to be said in private. "Mother, I'm not hiding him," Avery said, just as stoned-faced and hard as he had said to the three political strategists in front of him.
Kindle Alexander (Always (Always & Forever #1))
A red carpet and red rope stanchion sets demarcated a runway and seating areas. Silhouettes of prominent action heroes posing on silver and gold LED blocks illuminated the whole area. Black silk covered tables and chairs, with centerpieces of colossal martini glasses containing glowing ice cubes.
G.M.T. Schuilling (The Watchmaker's Doctor)
Let’s take a look at three key ways in which science and faith differ in their methods of arriving at the truth. First, science relies on evidence. No matter how elegant or beautiful an idea might be, science will discard it mercilessly if it isn’t backed up by nature and its laws: it simply must stand up to the scrutiny of experiment. On the other hand, faith—by definition—is belief in the absence of evidence. When there is evidence, it isn’t called “faith”; it’s called “knowledge.” You don’t have “faith” that the chair you’re sitting on exists; you know it does, and you can physically demonstrate its existence. In this way, faith quite literally means to unquestioningly believe—and even revere—rumors and hearsay, usually from centuries past. Second, any scientific inquiry must start with the assumption that it could be wrong. Falsifiability—the ability of a proposition to be proven false—is a necessary component of the scientific method, which begins with a hypothesis, tests it via experiment, and either verifies or nullifies it based on the evidence. Faith, in contrast, begins with a definitive conclusion believed to be correct—such as “Jesus is the son of God” or “Muhammad is Allah’s messenger”—and then works backward, cherry picking pieces of evidence (or perceived evidence) in an attempt to support it. This preconceived conclusion is most often accepted on the authority of men who died over a thousand years ago, or the books they left behind. In essence, science poses questions before attempting to provide answers, whereas faith provides answers that it deems unquestionable. Third, science is not only open to but also thrives on innovation and modification. Faith—particularly Abrahamic faith—is fundamentally characterized by infallibility, divinity, and the immutability of its holy texts. Those who challenge or modify these precepts are called blasphemers, heretics, or apostates, and have paid in horrific ways for their digressions throughout history. On the other hand, critical scrutiny and skepticism are key components that lie at the very heart of science. They are welcomed.
Ali A. Rizvi (The Atheist Muslim: A Journey from Religion to Reason)
Hjordis’s house in Oslo is filled in the afternoons with sunlight. In the evenings and during winter she burns a score of candles to soften and lift the dark that flattens even the best artificial light. Her living room feels alive; it seems to dance. By contrast, the Carpenters’ front room, with its thick brown curtains, umber wool rug, and heavy furniture, felt stiff and formal, but Hjordis would have understood immediately the ritual aspects of the gathering; to the right of the fireplace, Jud sat in a wingbacked chair turned slightly to face the upholstered sofa, where I sat in a carefully nonconfrontational pose, briefcase tucked out of sight. Adeline’s chair faced Jud’s across the fire, turned to give him all her support.
Nicola Griffith (Stay (Aud Torvingen #2))