Chit Sayings And Quotes

If we can use an H-bomb--and as you said it's no checker game; it's real, it's war and nobody is fooling around--isn't it sort of ridiculous to go crawling around in the weeds, throwing knives and maybe getting yourself killed . . . and even losing the war . . . when you've got a real weapon you can use to win? What's the point in a whole lot of men risking their lives with obsolete weapons when one professor type can do so much more just by pushing a button?' Zim didn't answer at once, which wasn't like him at all. Then he said softly, 'Are you happy in the Infantry, Hendrick? You can resign, you know.' Hendrick muttered something; Zim said, 'Speak up!' I'm not itching to resign, sir. I'm going to sweat out my term.' I see. Well, the question you asked is one that a sergeant isn't really qualified to answer . . . and one that you shouldn't ask me. You're supposed to know the answer before you join up. Or you should. Did your school have a course in History and Moral Philosophy?' What? Sure--yes, sir.' Then you've heard the answer. But I'll give you my own--unofficial--views on it. If you wanted to teach a baby a lesson, would you cuts its head off?' Why . . . no, sir!' Of course not. You'd paddle it. There can be circumstances when it's just as foolish to hit an enemy with an H-Bomb as it would be to spank a baby with an ax. War is not violence and killing, pure and simple; war is controlled violence, for a purpose. The purpose of war is to support your government's decisions by force. The purpose is never to kill the enemy just to be killing him . . . but to make him do what you want him to do. Not killing . . . but controlled and purposeful violence. But it's not your business or mine to decide the purpose of the control. It's never a soldier's business to decide when or where or how--or why--he fights; that belongs to the statesmen and the generals. The statesmen decide why and how much; the generals take it from there and tell us where and when and how. We supply the violence; other people--"older and wiser heads," as they say--supply the control. Which is as it should be. That's the best answer I can give you. If it doesn't satisfy you, I'll get you a chit to go talk to the regimental commander. If he can't convince you--then go home and be a civilian! Because in that case you will certainly never make a soldier.

Sure. I'll make small talk. Chit chat. Discuss the ins and outs of a "typical" day. Pass the time lightly. Say tiny things. I'm happy to tread surfaces with a smile, and will. Sometimes. Yet- when I look at you, I know there are layers. Dimensions. Collections of ancient wisdom. Roads. Stories on stories on stories. Core needs. There is humanness. This is where I light up. This is where I thrive. You can't be caged in a pool for long. Not when you're someone who wants oceans.

It’s nice to hear your voice…?” The statement came out sounding like a question, as though I were playing jeopardy and I’d chosen my category- ‘I’ll take ‘Charming Chit Chat’ for $200, Alex’ and behind the $200 read: ‘This is what you say to the hot guy- you abandoned- when he returns after you inexplicably leave him and his private jet in Las Vegas after having amazing and multiple occurrences of the hot sex.

I don't know what you believe in. I believe we just stop. Because if we move on to an afterlife, any kind of afterlife, that means there will be other people there. I'm tired of the chit chat. Oh, that is a handsome boy. He takes after his grandfather. Did they change the breakfast again? It tastes different to me. For Eternity? No thanks.

Indeed, for my own part, though I have been repeatedly told by persons for whom I have the greatest respect, that Miss Brown is an insignificant chit, and Mrs. White has nothing but her petit minois chiffonne, and Mrs. Black has not a word to say for herself; yet I know that I have had the most delightful conversations with Mrs. Black (of course, my dear Madam, they are inviolable): I see all the men in a cluster round Mrs. White's chair: all the young fellows battling to dance with Miss Brown; and so I am tempted to think that to be despised by her sex is a very great compliment to a woman.

You are my flesh and blood and I have always doted on you, but right now I would have to say you deserve a haughty, ruined chit for your own and she deserves you.

Then she jerked back with a siren's smile that made his confidence falter. "Well." She tapped her chin. "That was a decent kiss, all things being equal." She pressed her hand to her chest. "My heart is, if not quite racing, then heading into a quick walk. But I need a thermometer to determine if and how high my body heated. I shall just go--" "Don't you dare." He caught her by the arm as she was on the verge of fleeing. "You know bloody well that you responded to that kiss." With a suspicious glee in her eyes, she tugged her arm from his grip. "I'm not saying I didn't respond-- just that I didn't respond to any overwhelming degree. But it was a good kiss, I suppose. Better than some, not as good as others." "What the hell do you mean? How many chaps have you kissed in the last nine years, anyway?" "No more than you've kissed women, I should imagine." "My God." "But don't worry-- I don't think the average woman would complain about your kissing. You're perfectly competent." Competent? Bloody insolent chit. Even knowing she was trying to provoke him didn't ease his wounded pride. "Perhaps we should try again." -Giles and Minerva

… In 1885, when he turned twenty-five, he let out the word that he was ready to settle down with the right girl. The matrons heaved a collective sigh of relief. How wonderful. The boy actually understood his duties to God and country. He had no intention of marrying, of course, until he was at least forty-five – a society that so worshiped the infernal institution of marriage deserved to be misled. Let them try to matchmake. He did say the right girl, didn’t he? The right girl wouldn’t come along for twenty years, and she’d be a naive, plump-chested chit of seventeen who worshiped the ground on which he trod. Little could he guess that at twenty-eight he would marry, out of the blue, a lady who was quite some years removed from seventeen, neither naive nor plump-chested, and who examined the ground on which he trod with a most suspicious eye, seeing villany in everything he said and did. Her name was Louisa Cantwell, and she would be his undoing.

What can I do for you, Mother?" he asked. "And don't say 'Dance with Hermione Smythe-Smith.' Last time I did that I nearly lost three toes in the process." "I wasn't going to ask anything of the sort," Violet replied. "I was going to ask you to dance with Prudence Featherington." "Have Mercy, Mother," he moaned. "She's even worse." "I'm not asking you to marry the chit," she said. "Just dance with her." Benedict fought a groan. Prudence Featherington, while essentially a nice person, had a brain the size of a pea and a laugh so grating he'd seen grown men flee with their hands over their ears. "I'll tell you what," he wheedled. "I'll dance with Penelope Featherington if you keep Prudence at bay." "That'll do," his mother said with a satisfied nod, leaving Benedict with the sinking sensation that she'd wanted him to dance with Penelope all along. "She's over there by the lemonade table," Violet said, "dressed as a leprechaun, poor thing.The color is good for her,but someone really must take her mother in hand next time they venture out to the dressmaker. A more unfortunate costume,I can't imagine." "You obviously haven't seen the mermaid," Benedict murmured. She swatted him lightly on the arm. "No poking fun at the guests." "But they make it so easy.

What, sir, would you think of a member of the Weaker Sex who assumed the guise of a man, and left the home of her natural protector by way of the window?" "I should assume," replied Sir Richard, "that she had strong reasons for acting with such resolution." "She did not wish to marry me," said Mr. Griffin gloomily. "Oh!" said Sir Richard. "Well, I'm sure I can't see why she should be so set against me, but that's not it, sir. The thing is that here's my mother determined to find her, and to make her marry me, and so hush up the scandal. But I don't like it above half. If she dislikes the notion so much, I don't think I ought to marry her, do you?" "Emphatically not!" "I must say I am very glad to hear you say that, Sir Richard!" said Mr. Griffin, much cheered. "For you must know that my mother has been telling me ever since yesterday that I must marry her now, to save her name. But I think she would very likely make me uncomfortable, and nothing could make up for that, in my opinion." "A lady capable of escaping out of a window in the guise of a a man would quite certainly make you more than uncomfortable," said Sir Richard. "Yes, though she's only a chit of a girl, you know. In fact, she is not yet out. I am very happy to have had the benefit of the opinion of a Man of the World. I feel that I can rely on your judgment." "On my judgment, you might, but in nothing else, I assure you," said Sir Richard. "You know nothing of me, after all. How do you know that I am not now concealing your cousin from you?" "Ha-ha! Very good, upon my word! Very good, indeed!" said Mr. Griffin, saluting a jest of the first water.

You said, the other day, you thought we were a deal happier than the King children, for they were fighting and fretting all the time, in spite of their money.’ ‘So I did, Beth. Well, I think we are ; for, though we do have to work, we make fun for ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say.’ ‘Jo does use such slang words!’ observed Amy, with a reproving look at the long figure stretched on the rug. Jo immediately sat up, put her hands in her pockets, and began to whistle. ‘Don’t, Jo ; it’s so boyish!’ ‘That’s why I do it.’ ‘I detest rude, unladylike girls!’ ‘I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!

I frowned. “I didn’t know Clovians were allowed to have more than one wife.” “We aren’t typical Clovians,” said the count. You don’t say. “Care to elaborate?” I asked. “No.” Silver light glinted in his eyes. Despite everything else I knew about him, his eyes were a marvel—large, mournful, pale light framed by darkness. “Is Sourial married?” I asked. “Why are you asking about him?” A blade of steel undercut in his tone. “Just making conversation.” “Sourial and I are unusual among our kind. We have no wives.” “Will he be at the party, too?” “Making conversation again, are you?” He murmured. “Oh yes. My people call it chit-chatting.” “It’s a terrible habit.” “Some day, Count Saklas, you are going to have fun. And it is going to blow your mind.” “I’d rather keep my mind intact.

Hero soon lost interest in the conversation, and left her chair to go and look out of the window into the busy street. When the Viscount at last rose to go she was employed in drawing faces on the dusty window-panes. 'If ever I saw such a troublesome chit!' exclaimed Sherry. 'Now look at your glove! What's more, I dare say Stoke don't like to have his windows looking like that.' Mr. Stoke, watching in some amusement her ladyship's conscience-stricken scrutiny of one dirty finger-tip, said that he thought her window sketches brightened the room, and earned a grateful smile.

And at the risk of sounding like Andy Rooney on Sixty Minutes, have you ever wondered why we say fiddle-faddle and not faddle- fiddle? Why is it ping-pong and pitter-patter rather than pong-ping and patter-pitter? Why dribs and drabs, rather than vice versa? Why can't a kitchen be span and spic? Whence riff-raff, mish-mash, flim-flam, chit-chat, tit for tat, knick-knack, zig-zag, sing-song, ding-dong, King Kong, criss-cross, shilly-shally, see-saw, hee-haw, flip-flop, hippity-hop, tick-tock, tic-tac-toe, eeny-meeny-miney-moe, bric-a-brac, clickety-clack, hickory-dickory-dock, kit and kaboodle, and bibbity-bobbity-boo? The answer is that the vowels for which the tongue is high and in the front always come before the vowels for which the tongue is low and in the back.

You will help, won’t you?” Dragging his gaze from the doorway, he shook his head as if to clear it. “Help?” he uttered dryly. “I’m tempted to offer her my very desirable hand in marriage! First I ought to know her name, though I’ll tell you she suddenly seems damned familiar.” “You will help?” “Didn’t I just say so? Who is that delectable creature?” “Elizabeth Cameron. She made her debut last-“ Alex stopped as Roddy’s smile turned harsh and sardonic. “Little Elizabeth Cameron,” he mused half to himself. “I should have guessed, of course. The chit set the city on its ear just after you left on your honeymoon trip, but she’s changed. Who would have guessed,” he continued in a more normal voice, “that fate would have seen fit to endow her with more looks than she had then.” “Roddy!” Alex said, sensing that his attitude toward helping was undergoing a change. “You already said you’d help. “You don’t need help, Alex,” he snickered. “You need a miracle.” “But-“ “Sorry. I’ve changed my mind.” “Is it the-the gossip about that old scandal that bothers you?” “In a sense.” Alexandra’s blue eyes began to spark with dangerous fire. “You’re a fine one to believe gossip, Roddy! You above all know it’s usually lies, because you’ve started your share of it!” “I didn’t say I believe it,” he drawled coolly. “In fact, I’d find it hard to believe that any man’s hands, including Thornton’s, have ever touched that porcelain skin of hers. However,” he said, abruptly closing the lid on his snuffbox and tucking it away, “society is not as discerning as I, or, in this instance, as kind. They will cut her dead tonight, never fear, and not even the influential Townsendes or my influential self could prevent it. Though I hate the thought of sinking any lower in your esteem than I can see I already have, I’m going to tell you an unlovely truth about myself, my sweet Alex,” he added with a sardonic grin. “Tonight, any unattached bachelor who’s foolish enough to show an interest in that girl is going to be the laughingstock of the Season, and I do not like being laughed at. I do not have the courage, which is why I am always the one to make jokes of others

Your mom probably wouldn't be too happy if you're dating someone who quit school." I laugh. "Nope, don't think so. But I do think she likes you." "Why do you say that?" he says, cocking his head at me. "When I called her, she told me to tell you good morning. And then she told me you were 'a keeper.'" She also said he was hot, which is a ten and a half on the creep-o-meter. "She won't think that when I start failing out of all my classes. I've missed too much school to give a convincing performance in that aspect." "Maybe you and I could do an exchange," I say, cringing at how many different ways that could sound. "You mean besides swapping spit?" I'm hyperaware of the tickle in my stomach, but I say, "Gross! Did Rachel teach you that?" He nods, still grinning. "I laughed for days." "Anyway, since you're helping me try to change, I could help you with your schoolwork. You know, tutor you. We're in all the same classes together, and I could really use the volunteer hours for my college application." His smile disappears as if I had slapped him. "Galen, is something wrong?" He unclenches his jaw. "No." "It was just a suggestion. I don't have to tutor you. I mean, we'll already be spending all day together in school and then practicing at night. You'll probably get sick of me." I toss in a soft laugh to keep it chit-chatty, but my innards feel as though they're cartwheeling. "Not likely." Our eyes lock. Searching his expression, my breath catches as the setting sun makes his hair shine almost purple. But it's the way each dying ray draws out silver flecks in his eyes that makes me look away-and accidentally glance at his mouth. He leans in. I raise my chin, meeting his gaze. The sunset probably deepens the heat on my cheeks to a strawberry red, but he might not notice since he can't seem to decide if he wants to look at my eyes or my mouth. I can smell the salt on his skin, feel the warmth of his breath. He's so close, the wind wafts the same strand of my hair onto both our cheeks. So when he eases away, it's me who feels slapped. He uproots the hand he buried in the sand beside me. "It's getting dark. I should take you home," he says. "We can do this again-I mean, we can practice again-tomorrow after school.

We’ve all struggled with this: how to explain the desire to do something most people find pathological at best, selfish at worst, incomprehensible always. We sometimes describe it as a chit we were each handed at birth, a card to get out of jail free if one thinks of her life as jail. Or we talk about the horizontal light, which is how we refer to the light that sometimes replaces sunlight, the light we see for a brief moment virtually every day, the light that isn’t golden, but is as silver as the nacre inside a seashell, and comes not down from the heavens but from beyond the skyline, oozing and seeping until it lies over the day like an opalescent blanket inviting us to slide beneath it. There’s no telling when we’ll see the horizontal light; it appears at a different time every day, and most days we overlook it—it tends to come and go in an instant—and on other days we see and it lingers, but we manage to ignore it or, at least, after a while, to look away from it. But then there are the days we can’t look away. “Man, the horizontal light was really strong today,” one of us will say, and the other two will say, “But you resisted,” and the first one will say, “Yeah, well, today I resisted. Who knows about tomorrow?” and we all say, “Who ever knows about tomorrow?” and we refresh our drinks.

The girl really needed to let him go. This was the voyage Gray went respectable. And it was off to a very bad start. It was all her fault-this delicate wisp of a governess, with that porcelain complexion and her big, round eyes tilting up at him like Wedgwood teacups. She looked as if she might break if he breathed on her wrong, and those eyes keep beseeching him, imploring him, making demands. Please, rescue me from this pawing brute. Please, take me on your ship and away to Tortola. Please, strip me out of this revolting gown and initiate me in the pleasure of the flesh right here on the barstool. Well, innocent miss that she was, she might have lacked words to voice the third quite that way. But worldly man that he was, Gray cold interpret the silent petition quite clearly. He only wished he could discourage his body’s instinctive, affirmative response. He didn’t know what to do with the girl. He ought to do the respectable thing, seeing as how this voyage marked the beginning of his respectable career. But Miss Turner had him pegged. He was no kind of gentleman, and damned if he knew the respectable thing. Allowing a young, unmarried, winsome lady to travel unaccompanied probably wasn’t it. But then, if he refused her, who was to say she wouldn’t end up in an even worse situation? The chit couldn’t handle herself for five minutes in a tavern. Was he truly going to turn her loose on the Gravesend quay?

You do that a great deal, don’t you?” He swallowed the rest of his wine. “What?” “Close up into yourself whenever someone tries to peer into your soul. Make a joke of it.” “If you came out here to lecture me,” he snapped, “don’t bother. Gran has perfected that talent. You can’t possibly compete.” “I only want to understand.” “I want to be consumed by a star, but we don’t all get what we want.” “What?” “Never mind.” Turning for the nearest door into the house, he started to stalk off, but she caught his arm. “Why are you so angry at your grandmother?” Maria asked. “I told you-she’s trying to ruin the lives of me and my siblings.” “By requiring you to marry so you can have children? I thought all lords and ladies were expected to do that. And the five of you are certainly old enough.” Her tone turned teasing. “Some of you are beyond being old enough.” “Watch it, minx,” he clipped out. “I’m not in the mood for having my nose tweaked tonight.” “Because of your grandmother, you mean. It’s not just her demand that has you angry, is it? It goes back longer than that.” Oliver glared at her. “Why do you care? Has she got you fighting her battles for her now?” “Hardly. She just informed me that I was, and I quote, ‘exactly the sort of woman who would not meet my requirements of a wife.’” A smile touched his lips at her accurate mimicking of Gran at her most haughty. “I told you she would think that.” “Yes,” she said dryly. “You both excel at insulting people.” “One of my many talents.” “There you go again. Making a joke to avoid talking about what makes you uncomfortable.” “And what is that?” “What did your grandmother do, besides giving you an ultimatum about marriage, that has you at daggers drawn?” Blast it all, would she not leave off? “How do you know she did anything? Perhaps I’m just contrary.” “You are. But that’s not what has you so angry at her.” “If you plan to spend the next two weeks asking ridiculous questions that have no answers, then I will pay you to return to London.” She smiled. “No, you won’t. You need me.” “True. But since I’m paying for the service you’re providing, I get some say in how it’s rendered. Bedeviling me with questions isn’t part of our bargain.” “You haven’t paid me anything yet,” she said lightly, “so I should think there’s some leeway in the terms. Especially since I’ve been working hard all evening furthering your cause. I just finished telling your grandmother that I have ‘feelings’ for you, and that I know you have ‘feelings’ for me.” “You didn’t choke on that lie?” he quipped. “I do have feelings for you-probably not the sort she meant, though apparently she believed me. But she was suspicious. She’s more astute than you give her credit for. First she accused us of acting a farce, and then, when I denied that, she accused me of thinking to marry you so I could gain a fortune from her down the line.” “And what did you say to that?” “I told her she could keep her precious fortune.” “Did you, indeed? I would have given my right arm to see that.” Maria was proving to be an endless source of amazement. No one ever stood up to Gran-except this American chit, with her naïve beliefs in justice and right and morality. It amazed him that she’d done it, considering how he’d treated her. No one, not even his siblings, had ever defended him with so little reason. It stirred something that had long lain dead inside him. His conscience? No, that wasn’t dead; it was nonexistent.

What kind of pie, sir?" For a moment O'Malley was struck dumb over his great good luck. This mess had a choice of pie. "Apple," he said hopefully. The corporal set a brown crusted pie on the counter and poised a knife over it. O'Malley reached over and took the knife. He proceeded to cut the pie four ways. "But I say, sir, we don't cut pies that way. It's against regulations, sir." The corporal was plainly flustered. "Indaid?" O'Malley said. "An' could ye put down the whole pie in me chit book?" "Of course, sir, but really if you let me cut it, sir, it wouldn't be ruined and you'll pay for only the portion you eat." "Ah," O'Malley said and slid a quarter of the pie out of the tin and into his big hand. The corporal watched with fascination as the slab disappeared.

Buddho A mantra, associated with the Mahayana or Vajrayana Buddhism and a significant part of the history of Theravada. Repeating the name of Buddha or other Pali phrases is known to help the individual cultivate loving kindness. ‘Buddho’ comes to mean His title, not His rank. You call upon the holy teacher to offer you peace, harmony between yourself and the universe, harmony between the sensual and the spiritual world, by repeating the mantra. Until you continue, sit comfortably on the ground and take a few deep breaths. Then breathe in, say a long' bud-,' breathe out, hold'-dho.' At the conclusion of your practice, the mantra will give you clarity and brightness. • Lumen de Lumine Lumen De Lumine is luminous song. It helps you to feel open towards the world. The person will be engulfed in light. When darkness overpowers your life, Lumen De Lumine removes your aura and fills you with glow and light. You'll be more relaxed and uplifted. This is the ideal balance of power and harmony. The mantra will give you the faith that you're free from negative energies. Just like the light, you'll feel strong, untouchable, and invincible. Anyone can touch Lumen De Lumine. You don't have to close yourself with this chant in mind. Think of your loved one bringing positive energy and feelings to them. • Sat, Chit, Ananda Often known as Satchitananda, a Sanskrit composite word composed of the three verbs' sat,'' cit' and' ananda.' Sat means ' life, being present, being alive, living, being real, being good, being right, being normal, intelligent, being truthful.' Chit means' see, feel, perceive, understand, accept, think about something, shape a thought, be conscious, remember, consider' Ananda means ‘joy, love, satisfaction, enjoyment, happiness, pure elation’.

Caleb swore under his breath and got to his feet. He had so much to say to Lily, and presents to give her, and here she’d taken off on some wild goose chase. She really meant to move to that damned farm, the stubborn little chit.

In saying the word ‘Sachchidanand’ [sat-chit-anand, eternal knowledge and vision leading to bliss], it has great ‘effect’. There is an ‘effect’ even when it is said without the understanding [of it’s meaning]. When it is said with the understanding, there is tremendous benefit. Saying these words produces vibrations and everything churns. Everything is ‘Scientific’.

Addressing this doubt, in order to explain the mind, it is taught: || citir eva cetana-padād avarūḍhā cetya-saṅkocinī cittam || 5 || Awareness (citi) itself, descending from its state of pure consciousness (cetana), becomes contracted by the object perceived: this is [called] the mind (citta). Far from teaching an absolute distinction of divine spirit and mundane matter, Tantra teaches that they are in fact different phases of one thing, i.e., Awareness. Take the example of h2o: in one phase, we call it steam, in another, water, in another, ice. These three states are very different from one another, and we necessarily interact with each of them in very different ways. This is a perfect analogy for what Kṣemarāja intends here: there are three different states or phases of one ‘thing’—in one state, we call it God, in another, pure consciousness, in another, the mind. The implications of this are of course huge. First, though, let’s explore the specific three terms that Kṣemarāja is using here for these three states of the One. First we have citi, introduced in the first sūtra, which we translate (imperfectly) as Awareness. Citi (pronounced CHIT-ee) is the state in which Awareness is fully expanded, that is to say, untouched by any trace of contraction, including that of subjectivity or selfhood. In other words, there is no concealment whatsoever operative on the citi level (not that it’s really a level, of course). When citi manifests as an individuated subject, then that is the phase called cetana, here translated as ‘pure consciousness’. We have to define this second phase, cetana, more carefully so that we don’t confuse it with the third phase (the mind). Cetana (CHAY-tuh-nuh) is the state of being the conscious knower or agent of consciousness. We experience cetana in the space between trains of thought, a space of awareness momentarily devoid of thought-forms (vikalpas). That’s why I translate it as ‘pure consciousness’. We experience it dozens of times a day, but usually only for a second, and usually without the reflective self-awareness (vimarśa) by which we can know that we are experiencing cetana. (This ‘knowing’, when it does occur, does not take the form of a thought, or else it is no longer the cetana state.) The cetana state is open and expansive awareness; in fact, it is as expanded as awareness can be while still having a subtle ‘sense of self’.

He for a considerable time used to frequent the Green Room, and seemed to take delight in dissipating his gloom, by mixing in the sprightly chit-chat of the motley circle then to be found there. Mr. David Hume related to me from Mr. Garrick, that Johnson at last denied himself this amusement, from considerations of rigid virtue; saying, ‘I’ll come no more behind your scenes, David; for the silk stockings and white bosoms of your actresses excite my amorous propensities.

They’ve got rules for everything. No one even goes to the privy without a piece of paper.’ ‘Well, as a matter of fact I myself—’ ‘A piece of paper saying they can go, is what I meant. Can’t leave your village without a chit. Can’t get married without a chit. Can’t even have a sh— Ah, we’re here.’ ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Rincewind.

Perhaps Brainbusters is still within reach. Maybe I could even be team-mates with Jake. If I have to. After the judging is complete everyone gathers round the front desk in the science lab to hear who the winners are. As I go over I catch Mrs Chen’s eye and she gives me a HUGE grin. A sign? Once again I feel quietly confident. Brainbusters, here I come! Then Mrs De Souza arrives to announce the winners. I am bursting to hear my name. She begins with some chit-chat about how it’s not the winning that’s important, it’s the taking part. She goes on to say that the standard is very high in this competition and that it is a shame there can only

There was a feeling of being in the nucleus of the psyche. Awareness of “all and everything” and simultaneously, “This is IT.” The Vedantists say at the highest level of consciousness there is only being (sat), consciousness (chit) and blissful joy (ananda). In my experience there was no self, no body, no time or space, but there was being. There was also consciousness: I could remember everything afterwards. Even though “I” wasn’t there, there was observation and recording going on. And there was certainly bliss, joy, ecstasy unimaginable. I had the sense of being at an exact balancing edge between an internalizing and externalizing movement. I could let go, sinking deep within, falling and opening to a vast inner spaciousness, or I could let the energy come out and express through body movement and voice (RM).

A distraction can teach younger children how to be well behaved. Focus on the other hand can do same for older children. When younger children are fussy and acting in ways that we do not like, distractions can give them something else to think about and get them to change their behaviour. A young child crying...distract him. Same with when they are not doing so well in school sef, find a distraction that can teach them what they ordinarily weren't learning. From ages 0 to 7 you can't ALWAYS be too serious with a child. That sweet that you gave a 3 year old crying that got him to stop was just a distraction from the real issue that caused him to cry. That toy with which they "play and count with" is just a distraction from the seriousness of counting say without a toy. As they grow older however, distractions do the opposite... They get a child to lose CONCENTRATION. And forget what matters. That's understandable, right? The less distraction the better, now. Focus is more like it. Also, focus is learnt. Children aren't born with FOCUS or ability to pay attention. At times, when a child performs below our expectations in school, it's because they haven't learnt how to focus. How to focus is serious business, too. It's not just about doing one thing at a time, it's about doing that thing right ONE TIME. EVERY opportunity is perfect to teach a child to learn how to focus. On the dinning table...while they eat let them eat only, no chit chat. Let them chew slowly so they can focus on HOW THE FOOD tastes. When they talk, let them slow down and think as they talk. Teach them to be PRESENT in the EVERY MOMENT. In the toilet even, many kids spend too long there cos, they are THINKING AND POOING. Yes, I know many adults who find inspiration in the toilet, but certainly not a way to train a child, believe me. If they deliberately went in there to think, that's a different matter , in fact that's what adults who think in there do. They deliberately choose to THINK, there. Focus helps with fostering the GROWTH MINDSET even. And helps with self-confidence. If a child is not confident, he most likely lacks the ability to focus 100%. Focus is beyond paying attention, parents. Focus is more about SETTING A goal and reaching that GOAL.

That is the message of the Upanishads. The infinite – free, unbounded, full of joy – is our native state. We have fallen from that state and seek it everywhere: every human activity is an attempt to fill this void. But as long as we try to fill it from outside ourselves, we are making demands on life which life cannot fulfill. Finite things can never appease an infinite hunger. Nothing can satisfy us but reunion with our real Self, which the Upanishads say is sat-chit-ananda: absolute reality, pure awareness, unconditioned joy.

I took Elspeth home first. I had written to my father while we were on honeymoon, and had had a letter back saying: “Who is the unfortunate chit, for God’s sake? Does she know what she has got?” So all was well enough in its way on that front.

And then I got it. Dan didn’t need me to bake cakes, or entertain his uncle, or dress up, or field his mother’s expectations, or make his sisters feel important, or chit-chat nicely to his relations. He just needed me to be there. Because when I was with him, it made it easier for him to be with his family. To be able to point across a room and say, “She’s with me,” to his Uncle Patrick, his mother, his cousins, but most important, to himself.

Benedict!” Damn. He’d nearly made a clean escape. He looked up to see his mother hurrying toward him. She was dressed in some sort of Elizabethan costume. He supposed she was meant to be a character in one of Shakespeare’s plays, but for the life of him, he had no idea which. “What can I do for you, Mother?” he asked. “And don’t say ‘Dance with Hermione Smythe-Smith.’ Last time I did that I nearly lost three toes in the process.” “I wasn’t going to ask anything of the sort,” Violet replied. “I was going to ask you to dance with Prudence Featherington.” “Have mercy, Mother,” he moaned. “She’s even worse.” “I’m not asking you to marry the chit,” she said. “Just dance with her.” Benedict fought a groan. Prudence Featherington, while essentially a nice person, had a brain the size of a pea and a laugh so grating he’d seen grown men flee with their hands over their ears. “I’ll tell you what,” he wheedled. “I’ll dance with Penelope Featherington if you keep Prudence at bay.” “That’ll do,” his mother said with a satisfied nod, leaving Benedict with the sinking sensation that she’d wanted him to dance with Penelope all along. “She’s over there by the lemonade table,” Violet said, “dressed as a leprechaun, poor thing. The color is good for her, but someone really must take her mother in hand next time they venture out to the dressmaker. A more unfortunate costume, I can’t imagine.” “You obviously haven’t seen the mermaid,” Benedict murmured. She swatted him lightly on the arm. “No poking fun at the guests.” “But they make it so easy.” She shot him a look of warning before saying, “I’m off to find your sister.” “Which one?” “One of the ones who isn’t married,” Violet said pertly.

As for the negation of the Christian Trinity in the Quran - and this negation is extrinsic and conditional - we must take account of certain shades of meaning. The Trinity can be envisaged according to a "vertical" perspective or according to either of two "horizontal" perspectives, one of them being supreme and the other not. The vertical perspective- Beyond-Being, Being and Existence - envisages the hypostases as "descending" from Unity or from the Absolute - or from the Essence it could be said - which means that it envisages the degrees of Reality. The supreme horizontal perspective corresponds to the Vedantic triad Sat (supraontological Reality), Chit (Absolute Consciousness) and Ananda (Infinite Beatitude), which means that it envisages the Trinity inasmuch as It is hidden in Unity(1). The non-supreme horizontal perspective on the contrary situates Unity as an essence hidden within the Trinity, which is then ontological and represents the three fundamental aspects or modes of Pure Being, whence the triad : Being, Wisdom, Will (Father, Son, Spirit). Now the concept of a Trinity seen as a deployment (tajalli) of Unity or of the Absolute is in no way opposed to the unitary doctrine of Islam ; what is opposed to it is solely the attribution of absoluteness to the Trinity alone, or even to the ontological Trinity alone, as it is envisaged exoterically. This last point of view does not, strictly speaking, attain to the Absolute and this is as much as to say that it attributes an absolute character to what is relative and is ignorant of Maya and the degrees of reality or of illusion ; it does not conceive of the metaphysical - but not pantheistic - identity between manifestation and the Principle; still less, therefore, does it conceive of the consequence this identity implies from the point of view of the intellect and the knowledge which delivers. (1) The Absolute is not the Absolute inasmuch as it contains aspects, but inasmuch as It transcends them; inasmuch as It is Trinity It is therefore not Absolute.

Are you mad because I didn’t take the kiss? It wasn’t an insult. I have every intention of cashing that check. Just not with all your friends watching.” “I appreciate that.” “Yeah?” Another searching look. Then he smiled. “Good.” “Doesn’t mean I’ll accept the chit when you cash it. But you scored points for chivalry.” “Yeah?” I nodded. “Hayley was very impressed.” He laughed. “Just what I need.” “Did I hear someone say my name?” Hayley said, slipping over between us. “That was Rafe,” I said, as we headed into the yard. “He said you’re just what he--” Rafe coughed, covering the rest. I grinned and jogged to catch up with the others.

When the dancing started he decided he must distance himself, and left the ballroom for the adjoining room. As he entered he noticed a young woman sitting by herself at the side of the room, clad in a pale gown. It made a striking contrast with the soft rosewood hue of her hair. A chit seated alone was in itself slightly remarkable, but all the more remarkable was his own reaction. In some momentary fit of insanity, Marcus found himself approaching her. "You do not dance, Madam?" Two silver-grey eyes met his, and Marcus felt an unexpected jolt. "As you can see, Sir, I do not." Her voice was low and clear. What madness had just overtaken him he could not say, but Marcus suddenly found himself asking her to dance. "Might I remedy that state of affairs?

He'd been a regular everywhere, and made lots of friends, but only the kind he ran into at other parties, who were glad to chit-chat in a group setting, but would never spare you individual time, and would be sad for maybe 5 seconds if they heard you'd been tortured to death. Which was to say, online friends.

Adi Shankaracharya, who is credited with the revival of Hinduism, could fearlessly rubbish central tenets of Hindu faith with lyrical felicity. In his famous stotra, the Nirvana Shatakam, he states—Na dharmo, na chartho, na kamo, na moksha: None of the four purusharthas or goals of life in the Hindu world view have meaning. Indeed, he goes further to say—Na mantro, na teertham, na veda, na yajnah: Neither mantra, nor pilgrimage sites, nor consecrated ritual, not even the Vedas are of any value. All that matters is Chit-ananda rupam: Awareness and Bliss. In this context, he actually conflates himself with Shiva—Shivo ham, Shivo ham: I am Shiva, I am Shiva. In most other conventional religions, especially the Abrahamic faiths, this assumption of godhood would be considered blasphemy. Indeed, by contrast, we have the example of the great Sufi mystic, Al-Hallaj (858–922 CE), in Persia, almost contemporaneous with Shankaracharya, who was put to death for having had the temerity to say—Ana’l Haq: I am the Truth. In ancient Greece, Socrates, the great philosopher, in the fourth century BCE, was sentenced to be killed by drinking hemlock, accused of ‘impiety’ and for his espousal of what is now called the logic of Socrates. At that very time in India, many divergent schools of philosophy were revelling in the freedom given by their faith to explore the truth in the way they thought fit. In such a milieu, Buddhism was genuinely under threat of being assimilated within the larger diversified matrix of Hinduism; indeed, many Hindus still believe that Buddha was the last avatar of Vishnu. No wonder then, that Buddhism could flourish with much greater ease with its identity as separately preserved, outside the shores of India, than in the land where it was born. Actually, Amartya Sen is right when he writes that Sanskrit has a larger volume of agnostic or atheist writings than any other classical language. Sheldon Pollock too is strongly rebutted by other reputed Western scholars. George Cardona, also a prominent Western Sanskrit scholar, emphasises ‘the sharp critical thinking skills of early Sanskrit studies across various disciplines. … At no point in early and medieval India was there an absolute, thoughtless acceptance of tradition, even by different followers of a single tradition. … Nor are grammatical, exegetical, or logical systems made solely as maidservants to Vedic tradition.

The essential nature of our Self or Atman is joy; Brahman, is joy; the world is joy. We are from joy, and we return to joy, which is our sole essence, prior to birth, during life, and on death. For reasons that I have discussed earlier, the joy which is the nature of our real Being, is pushed to the margins because the buddhi (mind), ever active and never still, and the ahamkara (ego), the futile sense of ‘I’-ness, dominate our lives. The spiritual purpose of life then is to quieten the mind and vanquish the ego, so that the chit or the Atman, the silent and joyful observer within us, awakens and makes us aware of who we really are—purnta or unblemished joy and fulfilment. As Stella Kramrisch, one of the first Western observers to understand the linkage in Hindu art between the creative and the sublime, writes: ‘Art originates in Mahat (The Great Consciousness) and evolves in buddhi. Subsequently, the ego apprehends and according to its limitations, modifies the work in progress, but it has no part in the creative process.’1 The purpose of art, then, must be to take us closer to anand. It must, in some way, jolt us away from our routine and mundane preoccupations, and transform our consciousness so that we are more predisposed to discover who we really are. The beautiful must be liberating. As a verse of the Natya Shastra says: ‘Let Natya be the fifth Vedic scripture … leading to joy and spiritual freedom.’ The Upanishadic dictum is—Raso vai saha: He is rasa. The ‘He’ is Brahman. Brahman is joy.