Colin Tipping Quotes

Anthony Bridgerton leaned back in his leather chair,and then announced, "I'm thinking about getting married." Benedict Bridgerton, who had been indulging in a habit his mother detested—tipping his chair drunkenly on the back two legs—fell over. Colin Bridgerton started to choke. Luckily for Colin, Benedict regained his seat with enough time to smack him soundly on the back, sending a green olive sailing across the table. It narrowly missed Anthony's ear.

Looked at from a spiritual standpoint, our discomfort in any given situation provides a signal that we are out of alignment with spiritual law and are being given an opportunity to heal something.

Our spiritual evolution depends heavily upon our recovery from our worst addiction—our addiction to the victim archetype, which traps us in the past and saps our life energy. The inner child represents nothing but a metaphor for our woundedness and a cutesy form of victim consciousness.

Do you always wear Malaysian imitations of Brooks Brothers blue oxford button-downs, Mr. Laney?" Laney had looked down at his shirt, or tried to. "Malaysia?" "The stitch-count's dead on, but they still haven't mastered the thread-tension." "Oh." "Never mind. A little prototypic nerd chic could actually lend a certain frisson, around here. You could lose the tie, though. Definitely lose the tie. And keep a collection of felt-tipped pens in your pocket. Unchewed, please. Plus one of those fat flat highlighters, in a really nasty fluorescent shade." "Are you joking?" "Probably, Mr. Laney. May I call you Colin?" "Yes." She never did call him "Colin," then or ever. "You'll find that humor is essential at Slitscan, Laney. A necessary survival tool. You'll find the type that's most viable here is fairly oblique." "How do you mean, Ms. Torrance?" "Kathy. I mean difficult to quote effectively in a memo. Or a court of law.

as humans, we automatically attach a whole string of judgments, interpretations, questions, and beliefs to situations. Our task involves accepting the imperfection of our own humanity and loving ourselves for having these judgments, including the one that says we must be a spiritually moribund person for creating this reality.

Therefore, the more we use Radical Forgiveness, the more the ego fights back and tries to seduce us into remaining addicted to the victim archetype. One way it accomplishes this task is by using our own tools of spiritual growth. A good example of this is found in the ego’s use of “inner child work” to keep us stuck in victimhood.

it is essential that we adopt a way of living based not on fear, control, and abuse of power but on true forgiveness, unconditional love, and peace.

The human experience is meant to be an emotional one, so the extent to which we deny our feelings is the extent to which we deny our purpose for being here.

Looked at from a spiritual standpoint, our discomfort in any given situation provides a signal that we are out of alignment with spiritual law and are being given an opportunity to heal something. It

The beauty of Radical Forgiveness lies in the fact that it does not require us to recognize what we project. We simply forgive the person for what is happening at the time. In doing so, we automatically undo the projection, no matter how complicated the situation. The reason for this is simple, in that the person represents the original pain that caused us to project in the first place. As we forgive him or her, we clear that original pain.

The truth is that there is no such thing as a negative emotion. Emotions only become “bad” and have a negative effect on us when they are suppressed, denied, or unexpressed. Positive thinking is really just another form of denial.

Through relationship we grow and learn. Through relationship we heal and are returned to wholeness and truth. We need others to mirror our misperceptions and our projections and to help us bring repressed material to consciousness for healing.

It has become clear to me during my workshops that a lot of the pain people carry is not their own and may go back several generations. Most frequently it is their parents’ pain they have taken on, but it might also be their grandparents’ or siblings’.

You have a mouth made for kissing," he murmured, angling her to face him. "Did you know that?" She shook her head. "So soft and generous." Leaning in, he tipped her chin with the heel of his hand. "Sweet." "No man's ever called me sweet." "Has any other man kissed you?" Again, she gave a little shake of the head. "Well, then. That's why." He brushed his lips over hers, just lightly, sending pure sensation frizzing through her veins. He hummed with satisfaction. "You taste of ripe plums." She couldn't help it. She laughed. "Now that's just absurd." "Why?" "Because it's too early in the year for ripe plums." His husky chuckle shook them both. "You're entirely too logical for your own good. A thorough kissing can mend that." "I don't want mending." "Perhaps not. But I think you do want kissing." He nuzzled the curve of her cheek, and his voice dropped to a sensual whisper. "Don't you?" She did. Oh, she did.

It is important to recognize that the mechanism of projection does not just apply to our shadow side. We also project onto other people the things we like about ourselves yet have a hard time acknowledging. Thus we see in those people our own inner beauty, our own creative talent, our own intelligence, and so on.

We’re not taught to look at what is going on and say, ‘Look what I have created in my life. Isn’t that interesting?’ Instead, we are taught to judge, lay blame, accuse, play victim, and seek revenge. Neither are we taught to think that our lives are directed by forces other than our own conscious mind—but, in truth, they are.

They'd entered a clearing. A wide, green meadow in the middle of the forest. The entire space was carpeted with bluebells. Thousands upon thousands of sweetly curving green stalks, their tips heavy with sprays of blue-violet blossoms. The sunlight shone from above and slanted through the trees, catching the blooms at different angles. The whole scene splendid. It was magical.

Do you know what day it is?” she asked, peering at him. “Don’t you?” “Here in Spindle Cove, we ladies have a schedule. Mondays are country walks. Tuesdays, sea bathing. Wednesdays, you’d find us in the garden.” She touched the back of her hand to his forehead. “What is it we do on Mondays?” “We didn’t get to Thursdays.” “Thursdays are irrelevant. I’m testing your ability to recall information. Do you remember Mondays?” He stifled a laugh. God, her touch felt good. If she kept petting and stroking him like this, he might very well go mad. “Tell me your name,” he said. “I promise to recall it.” A bit forward, perhaps. But any chance for formal introductions had already fallen casualty to the powder charge. Speaking of the powder charge, here came the brilliant mastermind of the sheep siege. Damn his eyes. “Are you well, miss?” Colin asked. “I’m well,” she answered. “I’m afraid I can’t say the same for your friend.” “Bram?” Colin prodded him with a boot. “You look all of a piece.” No thanks to you. “He’s completely addled, the poor soul.” The girl patted his cheek. “Was it the war? How long has he been like this?” “Like this?” Colin smirked down at him. “Oh, all his life.” “All his life?” “He’s my cousin. I should know.” A flush pressed to her cheeks, overwhelming her freckles. “If you’re his cousin, you should take better care of him. What are you thinking, allowing him to wander the countryside, waging war on flocks of sheep?” Ah, that was sweet. The lass cared. She would see him settled in a very comfortable asylum, she would. Perhaps Thursdays would be her day to visit and lay cool cloths to his brow. “I know, I know,” Colin replied gravely. “He’s a certifiable fool. Completely unstable. Sometimes the poor bastard even drools. But the hell of it is, he controls my fortune. Every last penny. I can’t tell him what to do.” “That’ll be enough,” Bram said. Time to put a stop to this nonsense. It was one thing to enjoy a moment’s rest and a woman’s touch, and another to surrender all pride. He gained his feet without too much struggle and helped her to a standing position, too. He managed a slight bow. “Lieutenant Colonel Victor Bramwell. I assure you, I’m in possession of perfect health, a sound mind, and one good-for-nothing cousin.” “I don’t understand,” she said. “Those blasts…” “Just powder charges. We embedded them in the road, to scare off the sheep.” “You laid black powder charges. To move a flock of sheep.” Pulling her hand from his grip, she studied the craters in the road. “Sir, I remain unconvinced of your sanity. But there’s no question you are male.” He raised a brow. “That much was never in doubt.” Her only answer was a faint deepening of her blush. “I assure you, all the lunacy is my cousin’s. Lord Payne was merely teasing, having a bit of sport at my expense.” “I see. And you were having a bit of sport at my expense, pretending to be injured.” “Come, now.” He leaned forward her and murmured, “Are you going to pretend you didn’t enjoy it?” Her eyebrows lifted. And lifted, until they formed perfect twin archer’s bows, ready to dispatch poison-tipped darts. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.

I’ve only an hour,” Colin said as he attached the safety tip to his foil. “I have an appointment this afternoon.” “No matter,” Benedict replied, lunging forward a few times to loosen up the muscles in his leg. He hadn’t fenced in some time; the sword felt good in his hand. He drew back and touched the tip to the floor, letting the blade bend slightly. “It won’t take more than an hour to best you.” Colin rolled his eyes before he drew down his mask. Benedict walked to the center of the room. “Are you ready?” “Not quite,” Colin replied, following him. Benedict lunged again. “I said I wasn’t ready!” Colin hollered as he jumped out of the way. “You’re too slow,” Benedict snapped. Colin cursed under his breath, then added a louder, “Bloody hell,” for good measure. “What’s gotten into you?” “Nothing,” Benedict nearly snarled. “Why would you say so?” Colin took a step backward until they were a suitable distance apart to start the match. “Oh, I don’t know,” he intoned, sarcasm evident. “I suppose it could be because you nearly took my head off.” “I’ve a tip on my blade.” “And you were slashing like you were using a sabre,” Colin shot back. Benedict gave a hard smile. “It’s more fun that way.” “Not for my neck.” Colin passed his sword from hand to hand as he flexed and stretched his fingers. He paused and frowned. “You sure you have a foil there?” Benedict scowled. “For the love of God, Colin, I would never use a real weapon.” “Just making sure,” Colin muttered, touching his neck lightly. “Are you ready?” Benedict nodded and bent his knees. “Regular rules,” Colin said, assuming a fencer’s crouch. “No slashing.” Benedict gave him a curt nod. “En garde!” Both men raised their right arms, twisting their wrists until their palms were up, foils gripped in their fingers. “Is that new?” Colin suddenly asked, eyeing the handle of Benedict’s foil with interest. Benedict cursed at the loss of his concentration. “Yes, it’s new,” he bit off. “I prefer an Italian grip.” Colin stepped back, completely losing his fencing posture as he looked at his own foil, with a less elaborate French grip. “Might I borrow it some time? I wouldn’t mind seeing if—” “Yes!” Benedict snapped, barely resisting the urge to advance and lunge that very second. “Will you get back en garde?” Colin gave him a lopsided smile, and Benedict just knew that he had asked about his grip simply to annoy him. “As you wish,” Colin murmured, assuming position again.

Colin rubbed his neck with his hand, regarding me like a hopeful puppy dog. "Are you sure you wouldn't prefer just to fling something at me and get it over with?" I leaned back against the cushioned back of the banquette, folded my arms across my chest, and waited. "Dempster?" I prompted. Colin considered for a moment, contemplated the olive plate, considered some more, and came out with, "We don't get on." "That much I figured out on my own." Colin shifted restlessly in his seat. "It's a long story." I patted the side of the glass carafe. "We have a large carafe of wine." Colin let himself relax into a rueful grin. "I really am sorry. I didn't mean to drag you into it." "Since I've already been dragged," I suggested, grasping the carafe with two hands and tipping it forwards over his glass, "it would be nice to know what's going on." "Thanks." Colin took the glass I held out to him. He raised it an ironic salute. "Cheers.

Life is all about selling. Being able to exchange knowledge and move people to co-operate.

• Мы получаем в жизни именно то, что хотим. Будет ли жизнь для нас средоточием боли или средоточием радости, зависит только от нашей оценки того, что мы получаем.

And yet, my mouth waters, the tips of my fingers tingling as he wraps a hand around his thick length and pumps it. Just once, but it’s enough for my lips to part and a small groan to escape me. Thank god he can’t hear me. Hopefully, he thinks I was just farting or vomiting a little in my mouth because I never want him to know how hot I am for this.

Anthony Bridgerton leaned back in his leather chair, regarded his scotch with a thoughtful expression as he swirled it about, and then announced, “I’m thinking about getting married.” Benedict Bridgerton, who had been indulging in a habit his mother detested— tipping his chair drunkenly on the back two legs— fell over. Colin Bridgerton started to choke. Luckily for Colin, Benedict regained his seat with enough time to smack him soundly on the back, sending a green olive sailing across the table. It narrowly missed Anthony’s ear. Anthony let the indignity pass without comment. He was all too aware that his sudden declaration had come as a bit of a surprise. Well, perhaps more than a bit. “Complete,” “total,” and “utter” were words that came to mind.

Benedict advanced immediately, lunging and attacking, but Colin had always been particularly fleet of foot, and he retreated carefully, meeting Benedict’s attack with an expert parry. “You’re in a bloody bad mood today,” Colin said, lunging forward and just nearly catching Benedict on the shoulder. Benedict stepped out of his way, lifting his blade to block the attack. “Yes, well, I had a bad”— he advanced again, his foil stretched straight forward—“ day.” Colin sidestepped his attack neatly. “Nice riposte,” he said, touching his forehead with the handle of his foil in a mock salute. “Shut up and fence,” Benedict snapped. Colin chuckled and advanced, swishing his blade this way and that, keeping Benedict on the retreat. “It must be a woman,” he said. Benedict blocked Colin’s attack and quickly began his own advance. “None of your damned business.” “It’s a woman,” Colin said, smirking. Benedict lunged forward, the tip of his foil catching Colin on the collarbone. “Point,” he grunted. Colin gave a curt nod. “Touch for you.” They walked back to the center of the room. “Are you ready?” he asked. Benedict nodded. “En garde. Fence!” This time Colin was the first to take the attack. “If you need some advice about women . . .” he said, driving Benedict back to the corner. Benedict raised his foil, blocking Colin’s attack with enough force to send his younger brother stumbling backward. “If I need advice about women,” he returned, “the last person I’d go to would be you.” “You wound me,” Colin said, regaining his balance. “No,” Benedict drawled. “That’s what the safety tip is for.” “I certainly have a better record with women than you.” “Oh really?” Benedict said sarcastically. He stuck his nose in the air, and in a fair imitation of Colin said, “‘ I am certainly not going to marry Penelope Featherington!’” Colin winced. “You,” Benedict said, “shouldn’t be giving advice to anyone.” “I didn’t know she was there.” Benedict lunged forward, just barely missing Colin’s shoulder. “That’s no excuse. You were in public, in broad daylight. Even if she hadn’t been there, someone would have heard and the bloody thing would have ended up in Whistledown.” Colin met his lunge with a parry, then riposted with blinding speed, catching Benedict neatly in the belly. “My touch,” he grunted. Benedict gave him a nod, acknowledging the point. “I was foolish,” Colin said as they walked back to the center of the room. “You, on the other hand, are stupid.” “What the hell does that mean?” Colin sighed as he pushed up his mask. “Why don’t you just do us all a favor and marry the girl?

Colin?” she whispered. He took a step forward—barely a half a foot, but it was close enough so that when he touched her chin and tipped her face up, her lips were mere inches from his.

Jeff has an uncanny ability to read a narrative and consistently arrive at insights that no one else did, even though we were all reading the same narrative. After one meeting, I asked him how he was able to do that. He responded with a simple and useful tip that I have not forgotten: he assumes each sentence he reads is wrong until he can prove otherwise. He’s challenging the content of the sentence, not the motive of the writer. Jeff, by the way, was usually among the last to finish reading.

nuestro malestar en cualquier situación es un aviso de que no estamos alineados con la ley espiritual y que se nos está proporcionando la ocasión de sanar algo.

He would leave a twenty-dollar tip on a fifty-cent breakfast, or simply forget where he had stashed the night’s takings, but would chisel his band members out of five bucks if he could.

Поскольку мысли по своей природе каузальны[7], каждая мысль приводит к тем или иным следствиям в мире. Иными словами, мы сами создаем реальность собственными мыслями (чаще всего бессознательно). Это и есть человеческий мир.

Forgiveness is a spiritual exercise that has to do with many things, but forgetting is not among them.