Concrete Rose Quotes

Did you hear about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete? Proving nature's laws wrong, it learned to walk without having feet. Funny, it seems to by keeping it's dreams; it learned to breathe fresh air. Long live the rose that grew from concrete when no one else even cared.

To every kid in Georgetown and in all “the Gardens” of the world: your voices matter, your dreams matter, your lives matter. Be roses that grow in the concrete.

Be roses that grow in the concrete.

Only God can judge me.

we wouldn't ask why a rose that grew from the concrete for having damaged petals, in turn, we would all celebrate its tenacity, we would all love its will to reach the sun, well, we are the roses, this is the concrete and these are my damaged petals, dont ask me why, thank god, and ask me how

Your voices matter, your dreams matter, your lives matter. Be the roses that grow in the concrete.

It's like if you plant something in the concrete and if it grow and the rose petal got all kinda scratches and marks, you ain't gonna say "damn, look at all the scratches and marks on the rose that grew from the concrete.." you gonna be like "DAMN! a ROSE grew from the CONCRETE?

The seed must grow regardless Of the fact that it’s planted in stone

Did you hear about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete proving nature's laws wrong it learned 2 walk without having feet

You never know how strong you can be until being strong is the only choice you have left." Tupac Shakur

It's kinda like how we have to do with ourselves. Get rid of the things that don't do us any good. If it won't help the rose grow, you've gotta let it go.

Never use abstract nouns when concrete ones will do. If you mean “More people died” don’t say “Mortality rose.

You gotta love people enough to let them go, especially when you're the reason they're gone.

Living your life based off what other people think, ain’t living at all.

Where There is a will there is a will to search and discover a better day Where a positive heart is all you need to rise beyond and succeed Where young minds grow and respect each other based on their deeds and not their color when times are dim say as I say "Where there's a will there's a way!

like to be reminded that beauty can come from much of nothing. To me that’s the whole point of flowers.

Son, one of the biggest lies ever told is that black men don't feel emotions. Guess it's easier not to see us as human when you think we're heartless. Fact of the matter is, we feel things. Hurt, pain, sadness, all of it. We got a right to show them feelings as much as anybody else.

I'm tired of hearing about all these fucked-up white people who did a bunch of fucked-up stuff, yet people wanna call them heroes

Keep Pushing Mav," Rico Says ," Tough situations don't last. Tough People Do.

If you let a person talk long enough, you’ll hear their true intentions.

the evil the u are the brighter u will get

The world got some nerve going on without him. People laughing and dreaming when Dre can't.

She wuz depressed. Yeah, she wuz on stuff for it. Like me. Sometimes it jus' takes you over. It's an illness," she said, although she made the words sound like "it's uh nillness." Nillness, thought Strike, for a second distracted. He had slept badly. Nillness, that was where Lula Landry had gone, and where all of them, he and Rochelle included, were headed. Sometimes illness turned slowly to nillness, as was happening to Bristow's mother... sometimes nillness rose to meet you out of nowhere, like a concrete road slamming your skull apart.

Loving you isn't enough. Being hard on you isn't enough. I haven't been enough.

Granny do them long prayers, man. She act like God don't know what's going on and it's her job to fill him in

People grow couches and bikes and concrete in their front gardens instead of roses.

And I thanked mi papa who'd always said to me that we, los Indios, the Indians, were like the weeds. That roses you had to water and giver fertilizer or they'd die. But weeds, indigenous plants, you gave them nada-nothing; hell you even poisoned them and put concrete over them, and those weeds would still break the concrete,

Parenting is hard, cuz. You gon’ break sometimes. The most important thing is that you pull yourself together and go back,

It's an illness," she said, although she made the words sound like "it's uh nillness." Nillness, thought Strike, for a second distracted. Sometimes illness turned slowly to nillness, as was happening to Bristow's mother... sometimes nillness rose to meet you out of nowhere, like a concrete road slamming your skull apart.

They ordered the extermination of all minds they couldn't control

I bet she need a distraction, and babies good at helping you forget death. Probably 'cause they so new.

This so called 'Home of the Brave' why isn't anybody Backing us up! When they c these crooked ass Redneck cops constantly Jacking us up

my life was lived through falling rain so call on me if there be pain

Ain’t no astronauts, doctors, or veterinarians around here. Everybody I know just tryna work

Some roses grow through concrete. Remember that.

I'm starting to think being a parent mean you don’t get to have much yourself. All my energy, my money, and my time go to him.

Oooh, these ol' kness. What can I tell you? Roses can bloom in the hardest conditions. - Mr Wyatt

That’s Ma for you. Granny say she came in the world ready for whatever. When things fall apart, she quick to grab the pieces and make something new outta them.

Tell me about the hands that broke you like tree branches. Tell me about the heart that made you a home, the barren soul that used your dry bones like kindling in the middle of winter. Tell me about the house fire, the ashes which you rose from. Tell me about your resurrection - but don't you dare tell me that you are not strong enough this time, don't you dare tell me that you cannot rise again, and again, and again.

What if you had like a trillion dollars and could live out here in a gigantic mansion. Would you be bougie?' 'Nah, 'cause I wouldn't live out here. I'd live on a private island somewhere so I ain't gotta be bothered by nobody.

People tend 2 choke that which they do not understand

Can one come 2 conclusions, Before the question is conceived?

I fell asleep in US history. It was boring anyway. I’m tired of hearing ’bout all these fucked-up white people who did fucked-up stuff, yet people wanna call them heroes.

If I had an ear 2 confide in I would cry among my treasured friends But who do u know that stops that long to help another carry on The world moves fast and it would rather pass u by than 2 stop and c what makes u cry

Is it that by its indefiniteness it shadows forth the heartless voids and immensities of the universe, and thus stabs us from behind with the thought of annihilation, when beholding the white depths of the milky way? Or is it, that as in essence whiteness is not so much a color as the visible absence of color; and at the same time the concrete of all colors; is it for these reasons that there is such a dumb blankness, full of meaning, in a wide landscape of snows- a colorless, all-color of atheism from which we shrink? And when we consider that other theory of the natural philosophers, that all other earthly hues — every stately or lovely emblazoning — the sweet tinges of sunset skies and woods; yea, and the gilded velvets of butterflies, and the butterfly cheeks of young girls; all these are but subtile deceits, not actually inherent in substances, but only laid on from without; so that all deified Nature absolutely paints like the harlot, whose allurements cover nothing but the charnel-house within; and when we proceed further, and consider that the mystical cosmetic which produces every one of her hues, the great principle of light, for ever remains white or colorless in itself, and if operating without medium upon matter, would touch all objects, even tulips and roses, with its own blank tinge — pondering all this, the palsied universe lies before us a leper; and like wilful travellers in Lapland, who refuse to wear colored and coloring glasses upon their eyes, so the wretched infidel gazes himself blind at the monumental white shroud that wraps all the prospect around him. And of all these things the Albino whale was the symbol. Wonder ye then at the fiery hunt?

Time is funny, man. Life is funny. We all on this huge planet tryna figure shit out. What is the planet already got it figured out? What if the whole point is for us to mot figure it out? What is God playing with like...like dolls? Some diverse-ass Barbies

Is this your holiday homework?" asked Sarah. "Don't do it, Rose! And Eve will write you a note to say it's iniquitous to give eight-year-olds homework. You will, won't you, Eve?" "I could never spell 'iniquitous,' Sarah darling!" "Hot concrete," said Rose mournfully, prodding her porridge. "Write this," ordered Saffron. "'The ancient Egyptians are all dead. Their days are very quiet.' Porridge is meant to look like hot concrete. Eat it up.... Read the next question!"... "What would you say if you bumped into Tutankhamen in the street?" "'Sorry!'" said Sarah at once. "Put that." "We have to answer in proper sentences." "'Sorry, but it was your fault! You were walking sideways!

Please wake me when I'm free I cannot bear captivity 4 I would rather be stricken blind Than 2 live without expression of mind

As long as some suffer The River Flows Forever As long as there is pain The River Flows Forever As strong as a smile can be The River will Flow Forever

Oh. Well, seven supposed to be holy and the number of perfection,” I say. “I think I wanna make Maverick his middle name. Everybody say he look like me. Since that’s the case, I want him to be the best version of me. The perfect Maverick Carter.

No Temple made by mortal human hands can ever compare to the Temple made by the gods themselves. That building of wood and stone that houses us and that many believe conceals the great Secret Temple from prying eyes, somewhere in its heart of hearts, is but a decoy for the masses who need this simple concrete limited thing in their lives. The real Temple is the whole world, and there is nothing as divinely blessed as a blooming growing garden.

And to every kid in Georgetown and in all “the Gardens” of the world: your voices matter, your dreams matter, your lives matter. Be roses that grow in the concrete.

I swear King never give a you-know-what. I think I care more 'bout him than he care 'bout himself.

Listen - You are not a lonesome freeway with a history of accidents, or the damaged record of every pair of palms that tried to unravel you. You are not a regret, not a letdown. Here you are, living like a scarlet war - no part of you wants to be real. This is when you need to open like a bud to the arms that hold you, even if you prefer to run from the sun into the shadowy sirens that call your name like a prayer. Repeat after me - you are a vessel of roses, and you wont always be in bloom, but I promise that the frost never stays for long. I promise that the light will find you.

Father Forgive Us For Livin’ Why All My Homies Stuck In Prison? Barely Breathin’ Believin That The World Is A Prison, It’s Like A Ghetto We Could Neva Leave… A Broken Rose, Trying to Bloom Through The Cracks Of The Concrete, So Many Otha Things For Us To See, Things To Be, Our History so Full Of Tragedy And Misery, To All My Homies Neva Made It Home, The Dead Peers I Shed Tatooed Tears For When I’m Alone, Picture Us Inside A Ghetto Heaven, A Place To Rest, Findin’ Peace Through This Land Of Stress, In My Chest I Feel Pain, Come In Sudden Storms, Life Full Of Rain In This Game Watch For landstorms, Our Unborn, Neva Gotta Grow Neva Gotta See What’s Next, In This World Full Of Countless Threats, I Beg God To Make A Way For Our Ghetto Kids To Breathe Show A Sign Make Us All Believe, Coz I Ain’t Mad At Cha

sometimes one person's hero is another person's monster

where my culture I'm told holds no significance I'll wither and die in ignorance But my inner eye can c a race who reigned as kings in another place

Did you hear about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete Proving nature's laws wrong it learned to walk without having feet Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams it learned to breathe fresh air Long live the rose that grew from concrete when no one else even cared!

I squatted by the water as it flowed over the tumbled rocks, thought how far they must've come to have settled in the concrete channel, the stream clear and melodious, the smell of fresh water. I didn't want to think about my mother anymore. I'd rather think about the way the willows and the cottonwoods and palms broke their way through the concrete, growing right out of the flood control channel, how the river struggled to re-establish itself. A little silt was carried down, settled. A seed dropped into it, sprouted. Little roots shot downward. The next thing you had trees, shrubs, birds. My mother once wrote a poem about rivers. They were women, she wrote. Starting out small girls, tiny streams decorated with wildflowers. They were torrents, gouging paths through sheer granite, flinging themselves off cliffs, fearless and irresistible. Later, they grew fat servicable, broad slow curves carrying commerce and sewage, but in their unconscious depths catfish gorged, grew the size of barges, and in the hundred-year storms, they rose up, forgetting the promises they made, the wedding vows, and drowned everything for miles around. Finally they gave out, birth-emptied, malarial, into a fan of swamps that met the ocean.

Give him a name that tells him who he is and who he can be. The world’s gon’ try to do that enough.

Romeo and Juliet was basically on some gang shit. You could say she was a Queen Lord, and he was a GD. They went out on their own terms like some straight-up Gs.

Celebrate life through the music through the spoken word through the splatter of colour on paper or wood or iron or canvas But celebrate your life Celebrate your ability to feel joy and sadness Celebrate your ability to feel! Only then will we be free to feel

Looks like you’re right. These canes need to be snipped.” “Because they won’t help them grow, right?” “Mmm-hmm. It’s kinda like how we have to do with ourselves. Get rid of things that don’t do us any good. If it won’t help the rose grow, you’ve gotta let it go.

You are a vessel of roses, and you won't always be in bloom, but I promise that the frost never stays for long. I promise that the light will find you.

I like to be reminded that beauty can come from much of nothing. To me that’s the whole point of flowers.

For all the roses growing in concrete. Keep blossoming.

So is Iesha.

Roses can bloom in the hardest conditions.

A Love Unspoken What of a love unspoken? Is it weaker without a name? Does this love deserve 2 exist without a title because I dare not share its name Does that make me cruel and cold 2 deny the world of my salvation because I chose 2 let it grow people tend 2 choke that which they do not understand Why shouldn't I be weary and withold this love from MAN What of a love unspoken no one ever knows But this is a love that lasts and in secrecy it grows

They remind me a lot of my son, honestly. See, with plants and babies it’s all about survival. Nobody flat-out say that when it comes to babies, but it’s the truth. I gotta make sure the plants get everything they need to grow like I gotta do with Seven.

I am a rose that grew from concrete. There was no soil, fertilizer or water to nourish me; just the hand of God to show that miracles can and do happen.

Sometimes one person’s hero is another person’s monster, or in my case, father.

I think I got a name.

No matter where you come from, you're always worth more than you think,

I wanna hug her, but I don’t got the right.

Tupac, the original rose that grew from concrete. May your words live forever.

He looked in a mirror lately? Stupid written on his forehead.

Don’t let the cuteness fool you. Babies straight-up thugs. They don’t give a damn what you going through.

He yawn and lay down on me. Naptime creeping up on him. I stay this way a minute. I like listening to him breathe and feeling his chest rise against mine. He don’t know that I’m tired all the time or that I’m technically a kid. He just know that I got him. When we like this, I ain’t gotta know a whole lot either. I just know that I love him. I kiss his temple so he’ll know it.

Steam pressure inside the sealed reactor space rose exponentially—eight atmospheres in a second—heaving Elena, the two-thousand-tonne concrete-and-steel upper biological shield, clear of its mountings and

He felt that he had unwittingly stuck his hand into The Great Wasps' Nest of Life. As an image it stank. As a cameo of reality, he felt it was serviceable. He had stuck his hand through some rotted flashing in high summer and that hand and his whole arm had been consumed in holy, righteous fire, destroying conscious thought, making the concept of civilized behaviour obsolete. Could you be expected to behave as a thinking human being when your hand was being impaled on red-hot darning needles? Could you be expected to live in the love of your nearest and dearest when the brown, furious cloud rose out of the hole in the fabric of things (the fabric you thought was so innocent) and arrowed straight at you? Could you be held responsible for your own actions as you ran crazily about on the sloping roof seventy feet above he ground, not knowing where you were going, not remembering that your panicky, stumbling feet could lead you crashing and blundering right over the rain gutter and down to your death on the concrete seventy feet below? Jack didn't think you could. When you unwittingly stuck your hand into the wasps' nest, you hadn't made a covenant with the devil to give up your civilized self with its trappings of love and respect and honour. It just happened to you. Passively, with no say, you ceased to be a creature of the mind and became a creature of the nerve endings; from college-educated man to wailing ape in five seconds.

Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future And time future contained in time past. If all time is eternally present All time is unredeemable. What might have been is an abstraction Remaining a perpetual possibility Only in a world of speculation. What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present. Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden. My words echo Thus, in your mind. But to what purpose Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves I do not know. Other echoes Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow? Quick, said the bird, find them, find them, Round the corner. Through the first gate, Into our first world, shall we follow The deception of the thrush? Into our first world. There they were, dignified, invisible, Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves, In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air, And the bird called, in response to The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery, And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses Had the look of flowers that are looked at. There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting. So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern, Along the empty alley, into the box circle, To look down into the drained pool. Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged, And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight, And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly, The surface glittered out of heart of light, And they were behind us, reflected in the pool. Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty. Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children, Hidden excitedly, containing laughter. Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind Cannot bear very much reality. Time past and time future What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present.

Lisa caress her belly. “One of the few good things during all the bad stuff.” I wrap my arms around her, placing my hands over hers. “She been that for me, too.” Lisa rest her head against my arm, and it’s like we just created our own world where it don’t matter that we two kids who don’t know what the hell we doing. All that matter is us. I look up at the night sky. It’s pitch black, and yet that somehow make the stars shine brighter. Hundreds of lights in all that darkness. Wait a second. A light in the darkness. I smile, and I look at Lisa. “I think I got a name.

Aw, I can go over there any Friday. I figured I’d chill with you and itty-bitty cuz.” “Damn, man. I can’t tonight. I got laundry and homework.” “Can’t you do that this weekend? I got us a pizza from Sal’s, and I got that new Lawless CD that drop next week.” “Yooo!” I say, into my fist. “How you get that?

..."You know what this mean, right?" he says, after a miniute. That's one reason I couldn't sleep last night. I stare ahead at the floor, and I can almost see Dre. I'll never fforget holding him in the middle of the street as blood leaked outta his boddyd. It's tatted on my brain for life....I look at King. "I gotta kill that nigga.

A simplification, as Honey understood it, in regard to a woman’s rage. That a tragic history could only lead to further tragedy—it was absurd, pigheaded even. Violence spawned violence spawned violence, while on the other side of the concrete wall a rose was a rose was a rose. Why must these two equations be kept apart? Why not violence to violence to roses?

Steam pressure inside the sealed reactor space rose exponentially—eight atmospheres in a second—heaving Elena, the two-thousand-tonne concrete-and-steel upper biological shield, clear of its mountings and shearing the remaining pressure tubes at their welds. The temperature inside the reactor rose to 4,650 degrees centigrade—not quite as hot as the surface of the sun.

To make a tarte of strawberyes," wrote Margaret Parker in 1551, "take and strayne theym with the yolkes of four eggs, and a little whyte breade grated, then season it up with suger and swete butter and so bake it." And Jess, who had spent the past year struggling with Kant's Critiques, now luxuriated in language so concrete. Tudor cookbooks did not theorize, nor did they provide separate ingredient lists, or scientific cooking times or temperatures. Recipes were called receipts, and tallied materials and techniques together. Art and alchemy were their themes, instinct and invention. The grandest performed occult transformations: flora into fauna, where, for example, cooks crushed blanched almonds and beat them with sugar, milk, and rose water into a paste to "cast Rabbets, Pigeons, or any other little bird or beast." Or flour into gold, gilding marchpane and festive tarts. Or mutton into venison, or fish to meat, or pig to fawn, one species prepared to stand in for another.

Good writing is always a breaking of the soil, clearing away prejudices, pulling up of sour weeds of crooked thinking, stripping the turf so as to get at what is fertile beneath. It would be amusing to carry the simile further. Those bulbs that flower in the sand and wither! The gay fiction annual that has to be planted again every year! Those experimental plants from Russia, France, and Greenwich Village that are always getting winter killed—confound 'em!—is it worth while planting them again? The stocky perennial that keeps coming up and coming up—so easy to grow and so ugly. Scarlet sage that gives a touch of fiery sin to the edge of the suburbanite's concrete walk! And then the good flowers—as honest as they are beautiful! The well-ordered gar den! The climbing rose that escapes and is the most beautiful of all!

He had stuck his hand through some rotted flashing in high summer and that hand and his whole arm had been consumed in holy, righteous fire, destroying conscious thought, making the concept of civilized behavior obsolete. Could you be expected to behave as a thinking human being when your hand was being impaled on red-hot darning needles? Could you be expected to live in the love of your nearest and dearest when the brown, furious cloud rose out of the hole in the fabric of things (the fabric you thought was so innocent) and arrowed straight at you? Could you be held responsible for your own actions as you ran crazily about on the sloping roof seventy feet above the ground, not knowing where you were going, not remembering that your panicky, stumbling feet could lead you crashing and blundering right over the rain gutter and down to your death on the concrete seventy feet below? Jack didn’t think you could.

A visible cloud of steam rose from a long wide pipe protruding from the roof of a large concrete factory-like building nearby, and the air all around was filled with the intensely savory scent of barbecue potato chips, a flavor being manufactured in quantity for one of Southern's vendors. Grace knew that the barbecue scent came from a massive vat of liquefied compounds, which could be cooled and then poured into hundreds of fifty-five-gallon drums in the morning, carefully sealed, loaded onto tractor-trailers, and shipped out, to be warehoused for as long as two years and then, eventually, utilized in the industrial production of billions of pounds of highly processed potato-based snack foods. She knew what she smelled was a by-product from the manufacture of a highly concentrated chemical. Nevertheless, the scent evoked picnics in the park, bag lunches in elementary school lunchrooms shared over laughter with her dearest friends, long-buried feelings from childhood that rose from her heart.

The first book he gave me was “The Autobiography of Malcolm X” And I thought he was trying to tell me something because Malcolm was Muslim Malcolm was a thug Malcolm was in jail Malcolm was all about the people Malcolm went to Mecca Malcom said some shit Malcolm was shot dead The only book I gave Clyde was “The Rose That Grew from Concrete” I was definitely trying to tell him something because Tupac was a poet Tupac was a thug Tupac went to jail Tupac was all about the people Tupac went everywhere Tupac said some shit Tupac was shot dead Clyde didn’t know that Umi made me read all about Malcolm in eighth grade Clyde didn’t know that I read about Martin Luther King and Nelson Mandela, too Clyde didn’t know that I’d read big books and watched documentaries on my own Clyde didn’t know that I’d reread that book in five days because after two months He asked me if I was done And by that point I had gotten through twelve books To take my mind off things for a little while, I said

The rapid growth of Message- combined with an outpouring of florists offering consultations in the language of flowers to the streams of brides Marlena and I turned away- caused a subtle but concrete shift in the Bay Area flower industry. Marlena reported that peony, marigold, and lavender lingered in their plastic buckets at the flower market while tulips, lilac, and passionflower sold out before the sun rose. For the first time anyone could remember, jonquil became available long after its natural bloom season had ended. By the end of July, bold brides carried ceramic bowls of strawberries or fragrant clusters of fennel, and no one questioned their aesthetics but rather marveled at the simplicity of their desire. If the trajectory continued, I realized, Message would alter the quantities of anger, grief, and mistrust growing in the earth on a massive scale. Farmers would uproot fields of foxglove to plant yarrow, the soft clusters of pink, yellow, and cream the cure to a broken heart. The prices of sage, ranunculus, and stock would steadily increase. Plum trees would be planted for the sole purpose of harvesting their delicate, clustered blossoms and sunflowers would fall permanently out of fashion, disappearing from flower stands, craft stores, and country kitchens. Thistle would be cleared compulsively from empty lots and overgrown gardens.

I picked her up and carried her down the hall to the bathroom, just a pitiful skeleton with skin stretched over the top and a great red scar across her chest. She sank onto the plastic seat we had got from the hospital and closed her eyes as I washed her, leaning her poor bald head back exhaustedly against the back of the shower cubicle. "I'll just change the sheets," I said, "I won't be a minute - would you rather sit under the water, or shall I turn it off and wrap you up in a towel ?" "Under the water," she whispered. I had to strip the bed entirely, and two of the pillows were saturated. I replaced them with pillows from my bed, and while I was at it my duvet as well. Then I propped the poor woman up against the bathroom sink to dry and dress her, picked her up and carried her back to bed. Never have I been so grateful to be, after all, a strapping wench rather than a delicate wisp of a girl. As I pulled the covers up under her chin she opened her eyes, looked at me sternly and said with nearly her old decision, "This is not the way I wish to be remembered, Josephine." "I know," I whispered, the tears spilling unchecked down my cheeks. Nurses are supposed to be bright and matter-of-fact about these things: my bracing professional manner left a lot to be desired. "I'll get you some dinner." "No," she said. "Just my pills, love." Back in the kitchen I stood for a moment in a trance of indecision, wondering where the hell to start. It didn't really matter - when you're overcome with lethargy you just have to do something. And then the next thing, and then the next, and eventually, although you'd have sworn you were far too tired and depressed to accomplish anything, you're finished. I turned on the tap about the big concrete sink by the back door and began to scrub sheets and blankets.

Another howl ruptured the quiet, still too far away to be a threat. The Beast Lord, the leader, the alpha male, had to enforce his position as much by will as by physical force. He would have to answer any challenges to his rule, so it was unlikely that he turned into a wolf. A wolf would have little chance against a cat. Wolves hunted in a pack, bleeding their victim and running them into exhaustion, while cats were solitary killing machines, designed to murder swiftly and with deadly precision. No, the Beast Lord would have to be a cat, a jaguar or a leopard. Perhaps a tiger, although all known cases of weretigers occurred in Asia and could be counted without involving toes. I had heard a rumor of the Kodiak of Atlanta, a legend of an enormous, battle-scarred bear roaming the streets in search of Pack criminals. The Pack, like any social organization, had its lawbreakers. The Kodiak was their Executioner. Perhaps his Majesty turned into a bear. Damn. I should have brought some honey. My left leg was tiring. I shifted from foot to foot . . . A low, warning growl froze me in midmove. It came from the dark gaping hole in the building across the street and rolled through the ruins, awakening ancient memories of a time when humans were pathetic, hairless creatures cowering by the weak flame of the first fire and scanning the night with frightened eyes, for it held monstrous hungry killers. My subconscious screamed in panic. I held it in check and cracked my neck, slowly, one side then another. A lean shadow flickered in the corner of my eye. On the left and above me a graceful jaguar stretched on the jutting block of concrete, an elegant statue encased in the liquid metal of moonlight. Homo Panthera onca. The killer who takes its prey in a single bound. Hello, Jim. The jaguar looked at me with amber eyes. Feline lips stretched in a startlingly human smirk. He could laugh if he wanted. He didn’t know what was at stake. Jim turned his head and began washing his paw. My saber firmly in hand, I marched across the street and stepped through the opening. The darkness swallowed me whole. The lingering musky scent of a cat hit me. So, not a bear after all. Where was he? I scanned the building, peering into the gloom. Moonlight filtered through the gaps in the walls, creating a mirage of twilight and complete darkness. I knew he was watching me. Enjoying himself. Diplomacy was never my strong suit and my patience had run dry. I crouched and called out, “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” Two golden eyes ignited at the opposite wall. A shape stirred within the darkness and rose, carrying the eyes up and up and up until they towered above me. A single enormous paw moved into the moonlight, disturbing the dust on the filthy floor. Wicked claws shot forth and withdrew. A massive shoulder followed, its gray fur marked by faint smoky stripes. The huge body shifted forward, coming at me, and I lost my balance and fell on my ass into the dirt. Dear God, this wasn’t just a lion. This thing had to be at least five feet at the shoulder. And why was it striped? The colossal cat circled me, half in the light, half in the shadow, the dark mane trembling as he moved. I scrambled to my feet and almost bumped into the gray muzzle. We looked at each other, the lion and I, our gazes level. Then I twisted around and began dusting off my jeans in a most undignified manner. The lion vanished into a dark corner. A whisper of power pulsed through the room, tugging at my senses. If I did not know better, I would say that he had just changed. “Kitty, kitty?” asked a level male voice. I jumped. No shapechanger went from a beast into a human without a nap. Into a midform, yes, but beast-men had trouble talking. “Yeah,” I said. “You’ve caught me unprepared. Next time I’ll bring cream and catnip toys.” “If there is a next time.

Philosophy can speak of the Cross in many tongues; when it is not the ‘Word of the Cross’ (1 Corinthians 1, 18), issuing from faith in Jesus Christ, it knows either too much or too little. Too much: because it makes bold with words and concepts at a point where the Word of God is silent, suffers and dies, in order to reveal what no philosophy can know, except through faith, namely, God’s ever greater Trinitarian love; and in order, also, to vanquish what no philosophy can make an end of, human dying so that the human totality may be restored in God. Too little, because philosophy does not measure that abyss into which the Word sinks down, and, having no inkling of it, closes the hiatus, or deliberately festoons the appalling thing with garlands: The Cross is thick bestrewn with roses: who has joined roses to the Cross?37 in place of Jerome’s ‘naked, to follow the Naked One’. Either philosophy misconceives man, failing, in Gnostic or Platonic guise, to take with full seriousness his earthly existence, settling him elsewhere, in heaven, in the pure realm of spirit, or sacrificing his unique personality to nature or evolution. Or, alternatively, philosophy forms man so exactly in God’s image and likeness that God descends to man’s image and likeness, since man in his suffering and overcoming of suffering shows himself God’s superior. Here God only fulfils himself and manages to satisfy his own desires by divesting himself of his essence and becoming man, in order, as man, ‘divinely’ to suffer and to die. If philosophy is not willing to content itself with, either, speaking abstractly of being, or with thinking, concretely of the earthly and worldly (and no further), then it must at once empty itself in order to ‘know nothing . . . except Jesus Christ and him crucified’ (I Corinthians 2, 2). Then it may, starting out from this source, go on to ‘impart a secret and hidden wisdom of God, which God decreed before the ages for our glorification’ (ibid., 2, 7). This proclamation, however, rises up over a deeper silence and a darker abyss than pure philosophy can know.

He had slept badly. Nillness, that was where Luna Landry had gone, and where all of them, he and Rochelle included, were headed. Sometimes illness turned slowly to nillness, as was happening to Bristow’s mother… sometimes nillness rose to meet you out of nowhere, like a concrete road slamming your skull apart.

It’s an illness,” she said, although she made the words sound like “it’s uh nillness.” Nillness, thought Strike, for a second distracted. He had slept badly. Nillness, that was where Lula Landry had gone, and where all of them, he and Rochelle included, were headed. Sometimes illness turned slowly to nillness, as was happening to Bristow’s mother…sometimes nillness rose to meet you out of nowhere, like a concrete road slamming your skull apart.

Mother Susan died on the temple steps, in hearing distance of her husband’s Sunday sermon. Uncle G shouted about the sin that had been committed against their land of refuge, and against the children of God who lived within its borders. As his voice rose to preach the need for a blood atonement, his wife lay bleeding on the concrete landing outside the temple. The irony was lost on Grace until much later.

I'm going in2 this not knowing what I'll find but I've decided 2 follow my heart and abandon my mind and if there be pain I know that at least I gave my all and it is better 2 have loved and lost than 2 not love at all In the morning I may wake 2 smile or maybe 2 cry but first 2 those of my past I must say goodbye