Charm Offensive Quotes

I don't think happily ever after is something that happens to you, Dev. I think it's something you choose to do for yourself.

I’ve learned it’s possible to be so in love with an idea of something, you can be blinded to the reality. And I’ve learned I want something real.

I don't love you despite those things. I love you because of those things.

Sexuality isn't always a straight line from closeted to out-of-the-closet. You can take time to explore and evolve and figure out exactly what kind of queer you are, if that even matters to you".

You're allowed to want the romance parts without the sex parts. Or the sex parts without the romance parts. All of those feelings are valid. You're deserving of a relationship in whatever form you want it.

Because there is nothing more terrifying than standing up in front of the world and declaring that you deserve love.

When it gets like this, how can I help?" Charlie swallows. "No one has ever asked me that before.

Most of the time, Dev is like a human bonfire walking around generously warming everyone with his presence. But burning that bright and that fiercely must be exhausting; no one can sustain it forever. Charlie wishes he could tell Dev it’s okay to flicker out sometimes. To tend to his own flame, to keep himself warm. He doesn’t have to be everything for everyone else all the time.

Do you still fall asleep listening to his old voicemails every night?

You're so good at seeing other people. I wish you could see yourself.

Charlie thinks about Dev and about the beautiful simplicity of being seen.

How are the pancakes?" Somehow both burned and raw in the middle. "Delicious." "Be honest, Charlie." "I think I already have food poisoning.

You're deserving of a relationship in whatever form you want it.

Dev Deshpande. Are you interested in becoming my prince?" If happily ever after is something you choose, then Dev decides to choose it for himself. "Yes," he says.

I...I'm terrified of letting you see me." Dev knows Charlie is handing him something important, something he's never trusted anyone else to hold before. "Oh, love," Dev says, leaning in to kiss the cluster of freckles to the left of his nose. "I already see you.

He's like a terrified baby bird. Like a two-hundred -twenty-pound baby bird with crippling anxiety and a fairly intense germ phobia who can't navigate his way through a complete sentence.

How can I help when it gets like this?" Dev folds himself tighter against Charlie, all those lovely sharp points digging in. "You can just stay," he says, at last. "No one ever stays.

Being perfect was the only way to ensure everything was safe and everything was healthy.

labels can be nice sometimes, They can give us a language to understand ourselves and our hearts better. And they can help us find a community and develop a sense of belonging.

And it's okay if you don't love me back yet. I can love enough for both of us. Just please stop pulling away.

Because slow and careful is what Charlie needs, and because Dev is a little bit obsessed with being what Charlie needs.

He's always happy, always smiling, always thinking about other people. He usually thrives on set, fluttering around to everyone, helping and chatting and feeding off the energy of it all. He's the most charming person Charlie's ever met. That's not the description of a depressed person.

Charlie hasn't met many people like this - people who don't male assumptions about you when they discover your brain doesn't work like theirs; people who don't judge you; people who simply stay with you and ask what they can do to help.

I... I... am not good with words, or with trying to communicate my thoughts. People always think I'm weird, so it's easier if I never talk.

He's just sad for him, for the little kid who fell in love with love stories where no one looked like him, no one thought like him, no one loved like him.

And that is why you will be ruling the country,” I say simply, “while I’ll be fighting on the battlefield, distracting the enemy with my dashing good looks.” “Are you saying I couldn’t distract the enemy with my own dashing good looks?” Kitt asks through his deep laughter, feigning offense. “I’m saying that we are only half brothers, so I’m afraid that means you only have half my charms.

I'd never been jealous of any young woman's looks. For me, it was like seeing a cute little squirrel. This one has big eyes, that one has a charming stripe, et cetera. But some women really take offense at youth and beauty.

White people can be so unself-conscious. It’s offensive, charming, and pathetic, all at the same time.

You're looking for a man-shaped person to share the night with?

He doesn't often try to explain his mind to other people. On the rare occassions he does, other people don't tend to listen.

We ate pizza on the floor of your new apartment, and I asked you why it took you six years to break up with someone who didn't make you happy. Do you remember what you said? " He shakes his head. "You said sometimes easy is better than happy.

It feels like an unzipping of his skin, as if he's stepping outside this costume version of himself to become his actual self - that he's discovering something true buried so deep he thought he would never reach that person, but there he is, and Dev is with him, holding his hand, guiding him through. In the middle of the night, he wakes up reaching out for Dev, but he's already there, arms wrapped up tight around Charlie. "I would choose you," Charlie whispers into the darkness.

You need to relax," she drawls, as if telling someone to relax has ever once in the history of human beings yielded that outcome.

But Charlie doesn't know how you show someone they're worthy of being loved. So he just stays.

Have you considered just letting yourself love him?

About halfway through the script, Charlie realizes he has never read a story about two men falling in love before.

He liked how productivity made him feel worthy, and he liked how being busy never left him time to think.

Any of these hot dudes ever going to hook up with each other?” “No…” “Then what is even the point of it?

And holy shit—Dev’s knees and Dev’s mouth and Dev’s Adam’s apple. He tries thinking about Daphne’s pretty blue eyes instead, but he can only see Dev’s dark ones, peering intensely at him behind his glasses. He tries to conjure the image of Angie’s soft body, but it’s superimposed with Dev’s wide shoulders, the slenderness of his hips, the sharp points and the beautiful brown skin and the smell of him.

How did you not know I’m gay?” Honestly, the possibility hadn’t even occurred to him. “In my defense, you’re obsessed with helping straight people find love, and your cargo shorts are heinous.” “The way I dress has nothing to do with the fact that I like dick.

He’s always happy, always smiling, always thinking about other people. He usually thrives on set, fluttering around to everyone, helping and chatting and feeding off the energy of it all. He’s the most charming person Charlie’s ever met. That's not the description of a depressed person.

He wishes they could kiss and talk about it.

The only people who actually come on this show for love are so brainwashed by the wedding industrial complex, and so convinced their self-worth is tied to matrimony,

I don’t think happily ever after is something that happens to you, Dev. I think it’s something you choose to do for yourself.

Dude. I’m so sure.

Why have I let the world convince me I’m not enough without romance?

He sounds charming, Kharon,” said Ed, “but take no offense, this seems like I’ll end up being the minion of an evil god, and I’ve worked in retail before, so I know it’s not all it’s supposed to be.

I can’t explain it, but when I’m kissing Dev, I’m not in my head about it. I don’t feel the pressure to make it work. It just works. And I don’t have to force myself to feel anything. I feel everything.

He's not sure why he's thinking about Dev's stomach, or how he knows Dev's shirt has crept up in the corner. Except. Except he does know. He knew as soon as he read Dev's script. A slow, sinking realization that only became clear when he saw it mirrored back to him on the page.

But burning that bright and that fiercely must be exhausting; no one can sustain it forever. Charlie wishes he could tell Dev it’s okay to flicker out sometimes. It’s okay to tend to his own flame, to keep himself warm. He doesn’t have to be everything for everyone else all the time.

My lady," Sebastian murmured, resting one hand at the small of her corseted back. Regarding Haldane with a slight smile, he continued to speak to Evie. "It seems I'll have to warn you, my love... this gentleman is a wolf in sheep's clothing." Although Evie would have expected the elderly man to take offense at such a remark, Haldane chuckled with pleasure, his vanity flattered. "If I were twenty years younger, my impudent fellow, I would steal her away from you. Despite your much-vaunted charm, you are no match for what I was then." "Age hasn't tamed you a whit," Sebastian replied with a grin, drawing Evie away from him. "Pardon us, my lord, while I remove my wife from safer territory." "It is obvious that this elusive fellow has been caught firmly in your snare," Haldane told Evie. "Go, then, and pacify his jealous temperament." "I... I will try," Evie said uncertainly. For some reason both men laughed, and Sebastian kept his hand on Evie's back as they left the main room.

Only a fool takes offense at the truth, Jessamine. They are awful, of that there is no question. But they are also very charming. Purveyors of unspeakable suffering and indescribable delights. Performers of murders and miracles! You might grow to like them, if you got to know them as I do. But why has your beloved Crabgrass ventured into this garden of horrors, I wonder?

this matter will not go uninvestigated.” He glanced at Madam Bones, who readjusted her monocle and stared back at him, frowning slightly. “I would remind everybody that the behavior of these dementors, if indeed they are not figments of this boy’s imagination, is not the subject of this hearing!” said Fudge. “We are here to examine Harry Potter’s offenses under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery!” “Of course we are,” said Dumbledore, “but the presence of dementors in that alleyway is highly relevant. Clause seven of the Decree states that magic may be used before Muggles in exceptional circumstances, and as those exceptional circumstances include situations that threaten the life of the wizard or witch himself, or witches, wizards, or Muggles present at the time of the —” “We are familiar with clause seven, thank you very much!” snarled Fudge. “Of course you are,” said Dumbledore courteously. “Then we are in agreement that Harry’s use of the Patronus Charm in these circumstances falls precisely into the category of exceptional circumstances it describes?” “If there were dementors, which I doubt —” “You have heard from an eyewitness,” Dumbledore interrupted. “If you still doubt her truthfulness, call her back, question her again. I am sure she would not object.” “I — that — not —” blustered Fudge, fiddling with the papers before him. “It’s — I want this over with today, Dumbledore!” “But naturally, you would not care how many times you heard from a witness, if the alternative was a serious miscarriage of justice,” said Dumbledore.

Feelings of a Pimp They think I was a player because I was devoted to the game They thought I worked hard on my offense to break down these women’s defenses just to score They think it’s the body count that made me manipulate them into my arms to get between their legs They think I’m satisfied with a different woman in my bed every night When during the day, even my bed can feel the loneliness They think I love the easy women They think it’s for the cool points that my heart grew cold They think they have me figured out Another dog chasing after every female dog in the streets They think I’m happy with all the texting buddies, but no wife But they don’t know They don’t know how tired I am of this, how tired I am of myself How tired I am of living like this How tired I am of these games, but that’s the only way I can score with a chick They don’t know how after sleeping with these ladies, I wish I had more chemistry with at least one of them to cuddle, to give goodnight kisses and wake up beside They don’t know how loneliness consumes me With a phone filled with women’s numbers, I still feel unwanted and unworthy They don’t know these easy women make it easy for me to feel confident about myself; although it’s the wrong type of confidence I feel validated by them, I feel accomplished, I feel loved although I’m having sex with them, not making love They don’t know how tired I am of chasing fool’s gold Chasing fast women who would sleep with me in a heartbeat Leaving me with the empty feeling I felt before I started the chase The player in me is played out. I just want love, but that’s the only thing I can’t seem to find So, I keep pimping in hope of finding love Her insecurities were beautiful They opened the door for me as an opportunist She was the perfect candidate Oh so sweet, but oh so hurt How smart would I be if I didn’t capitalize? Some fellas get women drunk and have their way with them I was doing nothing wrong but pretending to be prince charming, just to get the same results I became what they needed emotionally I was the shoulder to cry on, the ear to listen to, the one person who understood I was a smooth criminal manipulating the innocent Did not feel an ounce of guilt because I was weak myself I was insecure I couldn’t help preying on vulnerable women In their weakness I found strength I was a coward, a “wannabe” player I was playing the wrong games, winning the wrong prizes The truth is, no strong man takes advantage of a woman’s vulnerability. It is a trait of the weak. Diary of a Weak Man

Charlie thinks about all the times he’s pushed someone away because he didn’t want them to see his anxiety and his obsessiveness, and he thinks about what he really wanted all those times people took him at his word. He climbs back onto the bed and reaches out for Dev. Dev pulls away, fights him off, eventually curls down against his chest, and holds on tight. Dev sinks deep into Charlie, crying into the folds of his oxford shirt. Charlie tries to hold Dev like Dev held him that night in the bathroom, carrying his weight.

And finally, there were other kinds of lessons so gently and subtly given that they didn’t feel like lessons at all. How to wash one’s own hair; how to judge which colors suited one; how to say no in such a charming way that no offense was given; how to put on lipstick, powder, scent. To be sure, Mrs. Coulter didn’t teach Lyra the latter arts directly, but she knew Lyra was watching when she made herself up, and she took care to let Lyra see where she kept the cosmetics, and to allow her time on her own to explore and try them out for herself.

Any limiting categorization is not only erroneous but offensive, and stands in opposition to the basic human foundations of the therapeutic relationship. In my opinion, the less we think (during the process of psychotherapy) in terms of diagnostic labels, the better. (Albert Camus once described hell as a place where one’s identity was eternally fixed and displayed on personal signs: Adulterous Humanist, Christian Landowner, Jittery Philosopher, Charming Janus, and so on.8 To Camus, hell is where one has no way of explaining oneself, where one is fixed, classified—once and for all time.)

He was the most in your face. That’s what set him apart. There were, of course, other Liberal Party and DLP types on campus but they weren’t offensive and they weren’t rude. They were people you could talk to. You could sit down and have a cup of tea with them. I would never do that with Tony Abbott. He’s not that sort of person. I don’t care what your politics are, you can still engage with another person. You don’t have to be threatening. You don’t have to be just that awful person. I have no doubt Tony was a most charming man when he wanted to be. It was a very conscious choice he made.

We're all so happy you're feeling better, Miss McIntosh. Looks like you still have a good bump on your noggin, though," she says in her childlike voice. Since there is no bump on my noggin, I take a little offense but decide to drop it. "Thanks, Mrs. Poindexter. It looks worse than it feels. Just a little tender." "Yeah, I'd say the door got the worst of it," he says beside me. Galen signs himself in on the unexcused tardy sheet below my name. When his arm brushes against mine, it feels like my blood's turned into boiling water. I turn to face him. My dreams really do not do him justice. Long black lashes, flawless olive skin, cut jaw like an Italian model, lips like-for the love of God, have some dignity, nitwit. He just made fun of you. I cross my arms and lift my chin. "You would know," I say. He grins, yanks my backpack from me, and walks out. Trying to ignore the waft of his scent as the door shuts, I look to Mrs. Poindexter, who giggles, shrugs, and pretends to sort some papers. The message is clear: He's your problem, but what a great problem to have. Has he charmed he sense out of the staff here, too? If he started stealing kids' lunch money, would they also giggle at that? I growl through clenched teeth and stomp out of the office. Galen is waiting for me right outside the door, and I almost barrel into him. He chuckles and catches my arm. "This is becoming a habit for you, I think." After I'm steady-after Galen steadies me, that is-I poke my finger into his chest and back him against the wall, which only makes him grin wider. "You...are...irritating...me," I tell him. "I noticed. I'll work on it." "You can start by giving me my backpack." "Nope." "Nope?" "Right-nope. I'm carrying it for you. It's the least I can do." "Well, can't argue with that, can I?" I reach around for it, but he moves to block me. "Galen, I don't want you to carry it. Now knock it off. I'm late for class." "I'm late for it too, remember?" Oh, that's right. I've let him distract me from my agenda. "Actually, I need to go back to the office." "No problem. I'll wait for you here, then I'll walk you to class." I pinch the bridge of my nose. "That's the thing. I'm changing my schedule. I won't be in your class anymore, so you really should just go. You're seriously violating Rule Numero Uno." He crosses his arms. "Why are you changing your schedule? Is it because of me?" "No." "Liar." "Sort of." "Emma-" "Look, I don't want you to take this personally. It's just that...well, something bad happens every time I'm around you." He raises a brow. "Are you sure it's me? I mean, from where I stood, it looked like your flip-flops-" "What were we arguing about anyway? We were arguing, right?" "You...you don't remember?" I shake my head. "Dr. Morton said I might have some short-term memory loss. I do remember being mad at you, though." He looks at me like I'm a criminal. "You're saying you don't remember anything I said. Anything you said." The way I cross my arms reminds me of my mother. "That's what I'm saying, yes." "You swear?" "If you're not going to tell me, then give me my backpack. I have a concussion, not broken arms. I'm not helpless." His smile could land him a cover shoot for any magazine in the country. "We were arguing about which beach you wanted me to take you to. We were going swimming after school." "Liar." With a capital L. Swimming-drowning-falls on my to-do list somewhere below giving birth to porcupines. "Oh, wait. You're right. We were arguing about when the Titanic actually sank. We had already agreed to go to my house to swim.

No, Tom’s life went along well enough, especially in summer. He only begged just enough to save himself, for the laws against mendicancy were stringent, and the penalties heavy; so he put in a good deal of his time listening to good Father Andrew’s charming old tales and legends about giants and fairies, dwarfs and genii, and enchanted castles, and gorgeous kings and princes. His head grew to be full of these wonderful things, and many a night as he lay in the dark on his scant and offensive straw, tired, hungry, and smarting from a thrashing, he unleashed his imagination and soon forgot his aches and pains in delicious picturings to himself of the charmed life of a petted prince in a regal palace. One desire came in time to haunt him day and night: it was to see a real prince, with his own eyes. He spoke of it once to some of his Offal Court comrades; but they jeered him and scoffed him so unmercifully that he was glad to keep his dream to himself after that.

I open the back door of my car for Ginger to buckle the baby in. She smiles and goes to it. I spin around and I'm face-to-face with Logan Kilgore. “Hey, good lookin',” he says, leaning against my door to block my path. “What do you want?” I ask, cracking a slight smile as I wait. He's wearing a dirty, Auburn Football t-shirt, worn out jeans and the same bedraggled baseball cap he always wears. His hair is sticking out just around the edges of the cap in messy twigs and the occasional curl. His curious eyes are dancing around like maybe he's in a very good mood. Despite the obvious, he's kind of beautiful, a little. “Not a thing,” he tells me before turning to walk away. “...was just passing through, wanted to say hello. See you.” I watch him amble away. Ginger shuts Chucky in and opens the door across from mine. She stops before getting in to look up at Logan too. “He's kind of charming,” she tells me, giggling a little. “No offense, but you thought Doug was charming,” I tell her, skeptically. “Good point,” she agrees, before getting into the car.

You are very quiet,” Archer remarked as they walked together to the refreshment table. They’d just finished a game of whist and when Rose begged off from a second round, Grey’s brother did the same. “My apologies,” she replied. “I do not mean to be rude.” “My brother doesn’t deserve to take up so much room in that lovely head of yours.” She might have been insulted by his disparaging Grey, or his familiarity with her, had she not been so surprised by the remark itself. “You are impertinent, sir.” He grinned-a grin so much more roguish than Grey’s. “One of my more charming traits. I did not mean offense, dear lady. Only that thinking about him will do you no good. The man is bent on punishing himself for the rest of his life.” Rose accepted the plate he offered her. “Thank you. Why would he wish to punish himself?” “Because he’s an ar…idiot. Sandwich?” He held up a cucumber sandwich caught in silver tongs. “Please. I’m not certain I wish to discuss your brother with you, Lord Archer.” “Not even if I can help you win him?” Rose’s heart froze-no, it simply stopped. Her entire body went numb. She would have dropped her plate had Archer not swept it from her hand into his own. “What makes you think I wish to win him?” He flashed her a coy glance. “Please, lady Rose. I’ve not made a career out of studying your sex to fall for your false innocence now.” Oh dear God. Had Grey told him? “I’ve seen the way you look at him, and I’ve had to put with hearing about you for the last four years-no offense.” Rose arched a brow as he piled food upon her plate. “None taken. I wasn’t aware that I looked at your brother in a manner different from how I might look upon anyone else.” “Mm.” He popped a small cake into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “That’s just it. You try too hard to treat him like everyone else. It’s obvious you care for him, and not just as the man who saved your life.” “Saved my life? How very dramatic.” He gave her a very serious look as he handed her the laden plate. “Where do you suppose you’d be right now if Grey hadn’t taken you in? Certainly not here, with such good food and charming company.” Point taken. And now she felt simply awful for the way she had spoken to Grey earlier. She was such a cow. “You shame me, sir.” And worse, he’d made tears come to her eyes. Staring at her food-such a wonderful array he’d picked for her-she blinked them away. He steered her toward a window seat where they sat in plain view of the room, but at least with a modicum of privacy. “My apologies, my lady. I did not mean to offend you with my plain and thoughtless words.” “Plain, perhaps. Thoughtless, I highly doubt it.” She managed a small smile. “I don’t think you do anything without thinking first.” Archer laughed, looking so much like Grey it hurt to look at him. “Were that but true.

Others praise ceremonial Magic, and are supposed to suffer much Ecstasy! Our asylums are crowded, the stage is over-run! Is it by symbolizing we become the symbolized? Were I to crown myself King, should I be King? Rather should I be an object of disgust or pity. These Magicians, whose insincerity is their safety, are but the unemployed dandies of the Brothels. Magic is but one's natural ability to attract without asking; ceremony what is unaffected, its doctrine the negation of theirs. I know them well and their creed of learning that teaches the fear of their own light. Vampires, they are as the very lice in attraction. Their practices prove their incapacity, they have no magic to intensify the normal, the joy of a child or healthy person, none to evoke their pleasure or wisdom from themselves. Their methods depending on a morass of the imagination and a chaos of conditions, their knowledge obtained with less decency than the hyena his food, I say they are less free and do not obtain the satisfaction of the meanest among animals. Self condemned in their disgusting fatness, their emptiness of power, without even the magic of personal charm or beauty, they are offensive in their bad taste and mongering for advertisement. The freedom of energy is not obtained by its bondage, great power not by disintegration. Is it not because our energy (or mind stuff) is already over bound and divided, that we are not capable, let alone magical? 

The charm offensive was complemented by the work of a number of Islamic intellectuals with strong links to the Egyptian Islamic movement in general and the Muslim Brotherhood in particular. Tariq Ramadan was the most famous of these. The grandson of Hassan Al-Banna and a scholar at Oxford University, he argued for a heterogeneous Islam that combined the religion's traditions with new aspects rooted in the experiences of Muslims living in the West.

We've been together for seven years. Can I really just walk out in the middle of a date and not look back?” #shinersbayou #book2 “How in tarnation do you lose a police car?” -Sheriff Hall #shinersbayou “I know it’s probably not the most romantic end to an otherwise charming night, but have you ever shot a shotgun before?” #shinersbayou #book2 #shinersbayou “No offense, but this is a small town, and if you're not from around here, the law around here doesn't care about you.”-Eddie

The days that followed were what Matthew would remember for the rest of his life as a week of unholy torture. He had been to hell and back at a much earlier time in his life, having known physical pain, deprivation, near-starvation, and bone-chilling fear. But none of those discomforts came close to the agony of standing by and watching Daisy Bowman being courted by Lord Llandrindon. It seemed the seeds he had sown in Llandrindon’s mind about Daisy’s charms had successfully taken root. Llandrindon was at Daisy’s side constantly, chatting, flirting, letting his gaze travel over her with offensive familiarity. And Daisy was similarly absorbed, hanging on his every word, dropping whatever she happened to be doing as soon as Llandrindon appeared. On Monday they went out for a private picnic. On Tuesday they went for a carriage drive. On Wednesday they went to pick bluebells. On Thursday they fished at the lake, returning with damp clothes and sun-glazed complexions, laughing together at a joke they didn’t share with anyone else. On Friday they danced together at an impromptu musical evening, looking so well matched that one of the guests remarked it was a pleasure to watch them. On Saturday Matthew woke up wanting to murder someone.

The war with Mexico fiercely divided the American people. While the majority supported the war, a loud minority despised it, and their rancor filled the newspapers and the debates in the houses of Congress. A newly elected congressional representative from Illinois, Abraham Lincoln, declared: ‘The war with Mexico was unnecessarily and unconstitutionally commenced by the president.’ Lincoln challenged Polk on the issue that American blood had been shed on American soil and implied that the American troops were the aggressors. He charged that Polk desired ‘military glory … that serpent’s eye which charms to destroy … I more than suspect that Polk is deeply conscious of being in the wrong and that he feels the blood of this war, like the blood of Abel, is crying to Heaven against him.’ However, like many critics of the war, Lincoln voted for an appropriations bill to support military operations. An Illinois newspaper responded to Lincoln’s fulminations by branding him a ‘second Benedict Arnold,’ and Lincoln was defeated for reelection. Comparing Lincoln to Arnold was perhaps the most vicious charge that could then be made against an American. General Arnold has been a trusted favorite of George Washington during the American Revolutionary War. In August 1780 he had turned traitor and attempted to turn over the American army’s position at West Point to the British in exchange for money and a brigadier’s commission in the British army. His act of treachery was discovered but he was able to escape to safety behind British lines. Henry Clay, a former senator from Kentucky and unsuccessful candidate for president, often called the ‘Great Pacificator’ or the ‘Great Compromiser’ for his efforts to hold the Union together, spoke out forcefully: ‘The Mexican war,’ he said, ‘is one of unnecessary and offensive aggression … Mexico is defending her firesides, her castles, and her altars, not we.’ Representative

Octavia harrumphed. “I don’t care much for delicate constitutions unless they’re smothered in peppers with a side of garlic mayo.

Anguish. German soldiers--with their steel helmets and their death's-head emblem. Still, our first impression of the Germans were rather reassuring. The officers were billeted in private homes, even in Jewish homes. Their attitude toward their hosts was distant but polite. They never demanded the impossible, made no offensive remarks, and sometimes even smiled at the lady of the house. A German officer lodged in the Kahns' house across the street from us. We were told he was a charming man, calm, likable, and polite. Three days after he moved in, he brought Mrs. Kahn a box of chocolates. The optimists were jubilant: "Well? What did we tell you? You wouldn't believe us. There they are, your Germans. What do you say now? Where is their famous cruelty? The Germans were already in our town, the Fascists were already in power, the verdict was already out--and the Jews of Sighet were still smiling.

With all due respect, Alex, you seem slightly more than befuddled. You seem…” Vivi paused, searching for the word. “Furious,” Ella supplied frankly. “I’m not furious,” Alex said in frustration, “but besides not understanding what he sees in her…I simply find it unbelievable that he would think he could speak to me as if I were a child! It makes me…” She stopped, at a loss for words. “Furious?” Ella offered. Alex threw her a glare. “Irritated.” “Blackmoor seems just as chivalrous as always to me,” said Vivi. “Although, considering his prior warnings to you about Stanhope, it wouldn’t surprise me if he were slightly unnerved by the portrait the two of you were making.” “It would serve him right!” Then, forgetting her ire momentarily, Alex turned to Vivi. “What portrait? We were simply enjoying our afternoon. Stanhope has been a perfect gentleman.” “That may well be the case, Alex, but the two of you did appear rather…” Vivi let her sentence trail off. “Cozy.” This, again, from Ella. “Must you finish all her sentences?” Alex gave Ella an exasperated look. Ella smiled brightly. “It’s a particular skill.” “Stanhope and I were not ‘cozy.’ We were having a perfectly harmless conversation until Blackmoor appeared with that awful…” “Penelope.” In the pause that followed her addition, Ella looked innocently at Alex, a twinkle in her cornflower-blue eyes. Unable to be angry with her friend, Alex chuckled and wagged a finger in warning. “Ella. You tread on thin ice.” “Ah, but you must admit, my ability to exasperate is part of my charm.” “You have charm?” Vivi answered with laughter in her voice, “A very small amount. If you blink, you might miss it.” “Oh!” Ella cried out in mock offense, and the three laughed together. Alex

In recent years, Vorster had launched a charm offensive on black African leaders in an attempt to ease the international isolation South Africa faced as a result of apartheid. His idea was to rebuild diplomatic and trade links by exploiting Western fears of a Soviet takeover in the region, presenting himself as a statesman who could come to peaceful terms with his black neighbours. This stuck in Smith’s craw, as during the war Vorster had been a general in the Ossewabrandwag, a South African paramilitary group that had been so pro-Nazi it had even adopted their salute. It was there that Vorster had first met and befriended his spy chief van den Bergh. Smith hated the British with an implacable intensity, but they had at least been on the right side together during the war with Hitler.

Hélas ! Ton intérêt ici me désespère. Si quelque autre malheur m’avait ravi mon père, Mon âme aurait trouvé dans le bien de te voir L’unique allègement qu’elle eût pu recevoir ; Et contre ma douleur j’aurais senti des charmes, Quand une main si chère eût essuyé mes larmes. Mais il me faut te perdre après l’avoir perdu ; Cet effort sur ma flamme à mon honneur est dû ; Et cet affreux devoir, dont l’ordre m’assassine, Me force à travailler moi-même à ta ruine. Car enfin n’attends pas de mon affection De lâches sentiments pour ta punition. De quoi qu’en ta faveur notre amour m’entretienne, Ma générosité doit répondre à la tienne : Tu t’es, en m’offensant, montré digne de moi ; Je me dois, par ta mort, montrer digne de toi.

FIDELITY AND BETRAYAL He loved her from the time he was a child until the time he accompanied her to the cemetery; he loved her in his memories as well. That is what made him feel that fidelity deserved pride of place among the virtues: fidelity gave a unity to lives that would otherwise splinter into thousands of split-second impressions. Franz often spoke about his mother to Sabina, perhaps even with a certain unconscious ulterior motive: he assumed that Sabina would be charmed by his ability to be faithful, that it would win her over. What he did not know was that Sabina was charmed more by betrayal than by fidelity. The word fidelity reminded her of her father, a small-town puritan, who spent his Sundays painting away at canvases of woodland sunsets and roses in vases. Thanks to him, she started drawing as a child. When she was fourteen, she fell in love with a boy her age. Her father was so frightened that he would not let her out of the house by herself for a year. One day, he showed her some Picasso reproductions and made fun of them. If she couldn't love her fourteen-year-old schoolboy, she could at least love cubism. After completing school, she went off to Prague with the euphoric feeling that now at last she could betray her home. Betrayal. From tender youth, we are told by father and teacher that betrayal is the most heinous offense imaginable. But what is betrayal? Betrayal means breaking ranks. Betrayal means breaking ranks and going off into the unknown. Sabina knew of nothing more magnificent than going off into the unknown. Though a student at the Academy of Fine Arts, she was not allowed to paint like Picasso. It was the period when so-called socialist realism was prescribed and the school manufactured Portraits of Communist statesmen. Her longing to betray her father remained unsatisfied: Communism was merely another father, a father equally strict and limited, a father who forbade her love (the times were puritanical) and Picasso, too. And if she married a second-rate actor, it was only because he had a reputation for being eccentric and was unacceptable to both fathers. Then her mother died. The day following her return to Prague from the funeral, she received a telegram saying that her father had taken his life out of grief. Suddenly she felt pangs of conscience: Was it really so terrible that her father had painted vases filled with roses and hated Picasso? Was it really so reprehensible that he was afraid of his fourteen-year-old daughter's coming home pregnant? Was it really so laughable that he could not go on living without his wife? And again she felt a longing to betray: betray her own betrayal. She announced to her husband (whom she now considered a difficult drunk rather than an eccentric) that she was leaving him. But if we betray B., for whom we betrayed A., it does not necessarily follow that we have placated A. The life of a divorcee-painter did not in the least resemble the life of the parents she had betrayed. The first betrayal is irreparable. It calls forth a chain reaction of further betrayals, each of which takes us farther and farther away from the point of our original betrayal.

There’s fine lines around his eyes and bracketing his mouth, but since smiles are the main weapon in his charm offensive, he’s probably had those since he was nine.

But as the Olympics began, the North had seemed as if it were experimenting with a friendlier approach. The North Korean dictator, Kim Jong Un, had sent his sister as a diplomatic emissary to the games and had invited South Korea’s president, Moon Jae-in, to visit the North Korean capital of Pyongyang. The two countries had even taken the surprising step of combining their Olympic women’s hockey teams in a show of friendship. Why would North Korea launch a disruptive cyberattack in the midst of that charm offensive?

Oh, you savvy conversationalist, you know it! Communication is like a magnet for connection—pulling in all the witty banter, charming dialogue, and engaging repartees. It's the language of attraction, the charm offensive, that turns heads and keeps the sparks flying! So, let those words dance on your tongue, and watch how your irresistible charisma steals the show!

I believe it is a grave mistake to present Christianity as something charming and popular with no offense in it. Seeing that Christ went about the world giving the most violent offense to all kinds of people, it would seem absurd to expect that the doctrine of his person can be so presented as to offend nobody. We cannot blink at the fact that gentle Jesus, meek and mild, was so stiff in His opinions and so inflammatory in His language that He was thrown out of church, stoned, hunted from place to place, and finally gibbeted as a firebrand and a public danger. Whatever His peace was, it was not the peace of an amiable indifference.

Listen, Benny. If we're going to work together, there's gonna be no more of this... charm offensive you're apparently trying to wage. It's not going to work. We are coworkers, and that is it. Not allies, friends, or anything else. You'd better get it through that irritatingly symmetrical skull of yours ASAP." He raises an eyebrow suggestively, his crooked grin kicking up. "Oh? What's the 'anything else' you speak of, Reese's Pieces? I only offered allyship---any other ideas are all yours." A disbelieving laugh escapes me before I can stop it. "You're gonna run out of Reese's candy varieties very soon, Benzoyl Peroxide.

I was hoping Lady Anders might do me the honor of the supper waltz,” Hazlit said. The smile he aimed at Helene dazzled, for all it didn’t reach his eyes. “I promised this set to my brother,” Lady Helene replied, her show of regret equally superficial. “Perhaps you’d lead Miss Windham out in my stead? She’s been sitting here this age, good enough to keep a widow company amid all this gaiety.” Maggie glanced at her friend but saw only devilment in Helene’s eyes. “Lady Magdalene?” Hazlit held out a gloved hand. “May I have this dance?” The smile dimmed on his handsome face, and his gaze held hers. As much to get away from his inspection as anything, Maggie put her hand in his and rose. “I would be honored.” “Lady Helene, my thanks,” he said, holding up his left hand for Maggie to place her fingers over his knuckles. And it would be a blasted waltz. “You do not look honored,” he said, leading her to a position on the floor. “You look like you’re plotting the end of an association with Lady Anders.” “Helene has a peculiar sense of humor, but she knows I will retaliate at some point. I’ll make her dance with His Grace or perhaps with Deene.” “That would set tongues wagging.” He held out his left hand for Maggie to place her right in it. When she hesitated, he put her left hand on his shoulder, and took her right in his. “Really, Lady Magdalene, am I so offensive as all that? Your parents allow me under their roof, and your sister was happy enough to marry my half brother.” His hand at her waist was warm, even through her gown and stays. “You enjoy being difficult,” Maggie said as the orchestra began the introduction. “It isn’t becoming in a grown man. I’d take offense but I suspect you’re like this with most everybody.” “I can be charming.” “When it suits your purpose,” she said as the music began. “That isn’t charm, Mr. Hazlit. That is guile.” His

Lizzy Bennet, charming as we find her today, was strikingly bold, almost brash, for her time. When she eventually appeared in print, many Georgian readers would consider her to be offensively uppity.

Most of the time, Dev is like a human bonfire walking around generously warming everyone with his presence. But burning that bright and that fiercely must be exhausting; no one can sustain it forever. Charlie wishes he could tell Dev it’s okay to flicker out sometimes. To tend to his own flame, to keep himself warm. He doesn’t have to be everything for everyone else all the time.

Most of the time, Dev is like a human bonfire walking around generously warming everyone with his presence. But burning that bright and that fiercely must be exhausting; no one can sustain it forever. Charlie wishes he could tell Dev it’s okay to flicker out sometimes. To tend to his own flame, to keep himself warm. He doesn’t have to be everything for everyone else all the time.

unfortunately, that’s not how his depression works. It’s not logical or reasonable. It doesn’t need some catastrophic tragedy to turn the chemicals of his brain against him. Tiny tragedies are more than enough.

for someone who claims to love love, you’re really good at pushing it away.

Dev is like a human bonfire walking around generously warming everyone with his presence. But burning that bright and that fiercely must be exhausting. Charlie wishes he could tell Dev it’s okay to flicker out sometimes. It’S okay to the d his own flame, to keep himself warm.

Birthday are always a twenty-four-hour anxiety trap.

He shrugged, wholly unconcerned. He had weighed the offense against the penalty before he ever approached me, and he showed no sign of caring that he would be sent into danger — not that I really believed the danger, for Sandro bore a charmed life.