Christy Martin Quotes

Dance with the waves, move with the sea. Let the rhythm of the water set your soul free.

Beautiful creatures cannot be confined Her wings will grow, she'll find the sky.

Happiness lives inside of the smallest moments.

I want someone to read these words and understand me for just one second so I’m not alone with my thoughts.

The stars slowly faded as the sun began to rise, and I found eternity in the morning sky.

If you've been through trauma you don't need more drama, so surround yourself with those who bring you peace.

I was made to be wild, wicked and free, to carve out my own crazy destiny, to find a place in this world where I can be the most authentic version of me.

Courage became my hero, inner strength my miracle, I was rescued by self-love.

Let kindness flow like a hopeful river filling this barren world with love.

Find the wild places of her heart, and set her love free.

Maybe we'll meet each other in the next life, and maybe next time we'll do it right.

Sometimes you find forever in a kiss, and that's when you discover magic exists.

I am the weaver of hope, searching shadows for silver strands of stars. I make light out of darkness. I make dreams out of scars.

She lost herself in the trees, among the ever-changing leaves. She wept beneath the wild sky as stars told stories of ancient times. The flowers grew towards her light, the river called her name at night. She could not live an ordinary life, with the mysteries of the universe hidden in her eyes.

Some people expect too much from others and too little of themselves.

i chipped away at your exterior dodging shards of ice until you were no longer hard i cracked the surface, but your heart would not melt.

The flowers you see blooming in the sunshine were once hidden seeds waiting patiently for the rain.

She holds seeds of wishes that are starting to bloom.

Keep searching for the colors when everything turns gray.

Keep searching for the colors when everything turns gray. Even in your darkest moments a brighter day awaits.

When you don’t feel beautiful, look at your true reflection. You are a miracle made out of stars, my love, you are stardust perfection.

Begin each day with appreciation because this life you're living is your own creation.

Maybe your superpower is refusing to give up, even on your weakest days when you feel you're not enough.

Meet me at midnight in the forest of my dreams, we'll make a fire and count the stars that shimmer above the trees.

The Sittaford Mystery (1931) by Agatha Christie The Nine Tailors (1934) by Dorothy L. Sayers The Corpse in the Snowman (1941) by Nicholas Blake Tied Up in Tinsel (1972) by Ngaio Marsh The Shining (1977) by Stephen King Gorky Park (1981) by Martin Cruz Smith Smilla’s Sense of Snow (1992) by Peter Høeg A Simple Plan (1993) by Scott Smith The Ice Harvest (2000) by Scott Phillips Raven Black (2006) by Ann Cleeves

But as I continued to think about the matter I gradually gained a bit of satisfaction from being considered an extremist. Was not Jesus an extremist in love? “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, pray for them that despitefully use you.” Was not Amos an extremist for justice—“Let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.” Was not Paul an extremist for the gospel of Jesus Christ—“I bear in my body the marks of the Lord Jesus.” Was not Martin Luther an extremist—“Here I stand; I can do none other so help me God.” Was not John Bunyan an extremist—“I will stay in jail to the end of my days before I make a butchery of my conscience.” Was not Abraham Lincoln an extremist—“We hold these truths to be self evident that all men are created equal.” So the question is not whether we will be extremist but what kind of extremist will we be. Will we be extremists for hate or will we be extremists for love? Will we be extremists for the preservation of injustice—or will we be extremists for the cause of justice?

The notion of finding “a body in the library” of a country house was another trope of the genre. Christie had fun with it in The Body in the Library, where the corpse is found in Gossington Hall, owned by Miss Marple’s cronies, Colonel Arthur Bantry and his wife Dolly. But profound changes were taking place in British society as war was followed by peace-time austerity, and high taxes made it impossible for many families to cling on to old houses that were cripplingly expensive to run. Country house parties fell out of fashion, and although traditional whodunits continued to be written and enjoyed, detective novelists could not altogether ignore the reality. The scale of upheaval is apparent in another Marple story, The Mirror Crack’d from Side to Side, published twenty years after The Body in the Library. Gossington Hall has been sold off, and been run as a guest house, divided into flats, bought by a government body, and finally snapped up for use as a rich woman’s playground by a much-married film star. Her entourage provides a “closed circle” of suspects suited to the Sixties.

—Então o senhor tem uma teoria? —Um detetive, M. Martin, sempre tem uma teoria. É o que se espera dele. Pessoalmente, não chamo de teoria. Digo que é uma ideiazinha. Essa é a primeira fase. —E a segunda? —Se a ideiazinha for acertada, então eu sei! É bastante simples, como se vê. —Gostaria que me dissesse qual é a sua teoria... ou ideiazinha.

Motherbleeper, you cannot kill me!

I will fight forever, for my life, for my freedom, for every bit of light left in this dark world.

After decades of observing athletes and their habits, Martin has concluded that most popular recovery modalities work by exploiting the placebo effect. But he doesn’t see that as a reason to dismiss them. On the contrary, he views it as an opportunity. This is real mojo, and instead of calling it the placebo effect he prefers the terms “anticipatory response” or “belief effects.” He uses these alternative names, because people tend to dismiss the word placebo as a synonym for ineffective, when, in fact, these effects are real, and in some cases can be as powerful as many drugs. The difference is that you’re gathering up your body’s own resources to create the benefit.

Neither the Church of Christ, nor a Christian Commonwealth, ought to tolerate such as prefer private gain to the public weal, or seek it to the hurt of their neighbors.

The post-war turmoil experienced in Britain after the Armistice was succeeded by the misery of an economic slump, and then by the growing threat posed from overseas by Nazism and Fascism. It is no coincidence that the Twenties and the Thirties became the ‘Golden Age of Murder’, when novelists such as Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers and Anthony Berkeley crafted complex and original puzzles of whodunit, howdunit, and whydunit that tested readers’ wits and earned their authors fame and fortune. There was something unashamedly escapist about much detective fiction written during the Golden Age, but it is also true to say that the better books reveal far more about the society of the time than critics have acknowledged. That escapism regularly took engaging but wildly unlikely forms, with impossible crimes taking place within locked rooms, vital clues being hidden by way of complex cryptograms, and mysterious ‘dying messages’ uttered by murder victims who could never bring themselves to take the more obvious step of simply naming their killers.