Courts Of Chaos Quotes

I saw my earlier selves as different people, acquaintances I had outgrown. I wondered how I could ever have been some of them.

Man is the Reasoning Animal. Such is the claim. I think it is open to dispute. Indeed, my experiments have proven to me that he is the Unreasoning Animal... In truth, man is incurably foolish. Simple things which other animals easily learn, he is incapable of learning. Among my experiments was this. In an hour I taught a cat and a dog to be friends. I put them in a cage. In another hour I taught them to be friends with a rabbit. In the course of two days I was able to add a fox, a goose, a squirrel and some doves. Finally a monkey. They lived together in peace; even affectionately. Next, in another cage I confined an Irish Catholic from Tipperary, and as soon as he seemed tame I added a Scotch Presbyterian from Aberdeen. Next a Turk from Constantinople; a Greek Christian from Crete; an Armenian; a Methodist from the wilds of Arkansas; a Buddhist from China; a Brahman from Benares. Finally, a Salvation Army Colonel from Wapping. Then I stayed away for two whole days. When I came back to note results, the cage of Higher Animals was all right, but in the other there was but a chaos of gory odds and ends of turbans and fezzes and plaids and bones and flesh--not a specimen left alive. These Reasoning Animals had disagreed on a theological detail and carried the matter to a Higher Court.

Good-bye and hello, as always.

You have to believe him, because he's going to have your entire palace up in arms and your court in chaos and every member of it from the barons to the boot cleaners coming to you for his blood, and you are going to have to deal with it." Attolia smiled. "You make him sound like more trouble than he is worth. "No," said Eddis thoughtfully. "Never more than he is worth.

Like many faeries she knew, he was sculpture-perfect, but instead of being wrought of shadows like those in her court, this faery had a tangled feel to him. Shadow and radiance. He didn‘t look much older than her, until she saw the arrogance in his posture. Then, he reminded her of Irial, of Bananach, of Keenan, of the faeries who walked through courts and crowds confident that they could slaughter everyone in the room. Like chaos in a glass cage.

And the man clad in black and silver with a silver rose upon him? He would like to think that he has learned something of trust, that he has washed his eyes in some clear spring, that he has polished an ideal or two. Never Mind. He may still be only a smart-mouthed meddler, skilled mainly in the minor art of survival, blind as ever the dungeons knew him to the finer shades of irony. Never mind, let it go, let it be. I may never be pleased with him.

No truth, no equality. No equality, no justice. No justice, no peace. No peace, no love. No love, only darkness.

Dumai said you were once called a flower grown for court. I do not see that as an insult, but an endorsement. A flower in a world of ash is proof that life endures.

So I simply said one of the great trite truths: "There is generally more than one side to a story.

Ali gotovo uvijek idemo najkraćim putem, ravno, pa zaboravljamo da čovjek može napredovati čak i kad ide u krug.

Predosjećaji su se igrali lovice u dubinama moga uma, ali niti jedan od njih nije mi se sviđao dovoljno da bih ga poveo na ručak.

I’ve been waiting for you since the beginning of Time, Corwin.” “Must have been a bit tiresome.

I am the demigod of chaos. I am a child of Mother Earth. I am the gargoyle queen. Bearer of the Crown. Mated to a vampire. And through it all—Grace. Always, always Grace. And so I get up, one more time, to face the man who would take everything from me if I let him. I get up for my mother, who never knew her own power and who died so that I could know mine. I get up for my grandmother, who never knew who she was or what she had inside her. I get up for my great-grandmother. For my great-great-grandmother. For ten generations of women before me, who had their power silenced. Who hid their very existence in order to survive. Who bound their power in order to placate someone else who was afraid of what they had inside them. I am not afraid. And I will not hide anymore.

Yes,' it announced then. 'You are the one.' 'The one what?' I said. 'The one I will accompany. You've no objection to a bird of ill omen following you, have you, Corwin?' It chuckled then, and executed a little dance.

L'amour et la peur ont des conséquences étranges sur nos âme. Les rêves qu'ils apportent nous laissent dégoulinant d'eau salée et le souffle court, comme à l'agonie –voilà ce qu'on appelle les rêves tourmentés. Et seule l'odeur d'une rose peut les prévenir.

Maybe I should at least wait, to help you, until it’s clear that you want to be helped. Carl Rogers, the famous humanistic psychologist, believed it was impossible to start a therapeutic relationship if the person seeking help did not want to improve.67 Rogers believed it was impossible to convince someone to change for the better. The desire to improve was, instead, the precondition for progress. I’ve had court-mandated psychotherapy clients. They did not want my help. They were forced to seek it. It did not work. It was a travesty.

Islamism has become the “go-to” haven for those seeking order amid such chaos. Sharia courts have been established in these countries, filling the void of social control. After the savagery of dictatorship and civil war, the promise of divine law is understandably welcomed by a population hungry for order and stability. When the Islamists come to town, they therefore reestablish order again with their own savagery. For example, the immodest woman is no longer considered simply immodest; she is an adulterous sinner who must be flogged and stoned.

The demographic of most defendants in these courts is homogeneous; society’s lost boys and girls, a sorry parade of abused children turned drug-abusing adults. Sliding on and off the bottom rung of social functioning, in and out of homelessness, joblessness and wretched worthlessness, their histories are scabbed with violence, mental ill-health and chaos, and their present lies in a parallel universe where the middle-class ambition of the Good Life is replaced with a desperate scrapping for daily survival.

Medeiros managed to alienate the heart of the archdiocese, the mostly Irish and Italian working class of Boston, by ordering that any student suspected of being part of the “white flight” to avoid court-ordered desegregation of the city’s public schools was not to be allowed into Catholic schools. Medeiros’s directive was largely ignored. The archdiocese’s schools swelled in numbers, and many Boston Catholics swelled in resentment, seeing Medeiros as unfairly judging them as racist when many simply wanted to avoid the chaos of busing that no one in the wealthy suburbs had to endure. Thomas

One breath, the study was intact. The next, it was shards of nothing, a shell of a room. None of it had touched me from where I had dropped to the floor, my hands over my head. Tamlin was panting, the ragged breaths almost like sobs. I was shaking- shaking so hard I thought my bones would splinter as the furniture had- but I made myself lower my arms and look at him. That was devastation on that face. And pain. And fear. And grief. Around me, no debris had fallen- as if he had shielded me. Tamlin took a step toward me, over that invisible demarcation. He recoiled as if he'd hit something solid. 'Feyre,,' he rasped. He stepped again- and that line held. 'Feyre, please,' he breathed. And I realised that the line, that bubble of protection... It was from me. A shield. Not just a mental one- but a physical one, too. ... 'Feyre,' Tamlin groaned a third time, pushing a hand against what indeed looked like an invisible, curved wall of hardened air. 'Please. Please.' Those words cracked something in me. Cracked me open. Perhaps they cracked that shield of solid wind as well, for his hand shot through it. Then he stepped over that line between chaos and order, danger and safety. He dropped to his knees, taking my face in his hands. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry.' I couldn't stop trembling. 'I'll try,' he breathed. 'I'll try to be better. I don't... I can't control it sometimes. The rage. Today was just... today was bad. With the Tithe, with all of it. Today- let's forget it, let's just move past it. Please.' I didn't fight as he slid his arms around me, tucking me in tightly enough that his warmth soaked through me. He buried his face in my neck and said onto my nape, as if the words would be absorbed by my body, as if he could only say it the way we'd always been good at communicating- skin to skin, 'I couldn't save you before. I couldn't protect you from them. And when you said that, about... about me drowning you... Am I any better than they were?' I should have told him it wasn't true, but... I had spoken with my heart. Or what was left of it. 'I'll try to be better,' he said again. 'Please- give me more time. Let me... let me get through this. Please.' Get through what? I wanted to ask. But words had abandoned me. I realised I hadn't spoken yet. Realised he was waiting for an answer- and that I didn't have one. So I put my arms around him, because body to body was the only way I could speak, too. It was answer enough. 'I'm sorry,' he said again. He didn't stop murmuring it for minutes. You've given enough, Feyre. Perhaps he was right. And perhaps I didn't have anything left to give, anyway. I looked over his shoulder as I held him. The red paint had splattered on the wall behind us. And as I watched it slide down the cracked wood panelling, I thought it looked like blood.

Socrates: So now you won't acknowledge any gods except the ones we do--Chaos, the Clouds, the Tongue--just these three? Strepsiades: Absolutely-- I'd refuse to talk to any other gods, if I ran into them--and I decline to sacrifice or pour libations to them. I'll not provide them any incense... I want to twist all legal verdicts in my favor, to evade my creditors. Chorus Leader: You'll get that, just what you desire. For what you want is nothing special. So be confident--give yourself over to our agents here. Strepsiades: I'll do that--I'll place my trust in you. Necessity is weighing me down--the horses, those thoroughbreds, my marriage--all that has worn me out. So now, this body of mine I'll give to them, with no strings attached, to do with as they like--to suffer blows, go without food and drink, live like a pig, to freeze or have my skin flayed for a pouch-- if I can just get out of all my debt and make men think of me as bold and glib, as fearless, impudent, detestable, one who cobbles lies together, makes up words, a practiced legal rogue, a statute book, a chattering fox, sly and needle sharp, a slippery fraud, a sticky rascal, foul whipping boy or twisted villain, troublemaker, or idly prattling fool. If they can make those who run into me call me these names, they can do what they want--no questions asked. If, by Demeter, they're keen, they can convert me into sausages and serve me up to men who think deep thoughts. Chorus: Here's a man whose mind's now smart, no holding back--prepared to start. When you have learned all this from me you know your glory will arise among all men to heaven's skies. Strepsiades: And what will I get out of this? Chorus: For all time, you'll live with me a life most people truly envy. Strepsiades: You mean one day I'll really see that? Chorus: Hordes will sit outside your door wanting your advice and more-- to talk, to place their trust in you for their affairs and lawsuits, too, things which merit your great mind. They'll leave you lots of cash behind. Chorus Leader: [to Socrates] So get started with this old man's lessons, what you intend to teach him first of all--rouse his mind, test his intellectual powers. Socrates: Come on then, tell me the sort of man you are--once I know that, I can bring to bear on you my latest batteries with full effect. Strepsiades: What's that? By god, are you assaulting me? Socrates: No--I want to learn some things from you. What about your memory? Strepsiades: To tell the truth, it works two ways. If someone owes me something, I remember really well. But if it's poor me that owes the money, I forget a lot. Socrates: Do you have a natural gift for speech? Strepsiades: Not for speaking--only for evading debt. Socrates: ... Now, what do you do if someone hits you? Strepsiades: If I get hit, I wait around a while, then find witnesses, hang around some more, then go to court.

During the chaos of the Hundred Years’ War, when northern France was decimated by English troops and the French monarchy was in retreat, a young girl from Orléans claimed to have divine instructions to lead the French army to victory. With nothing to lose, Charles VII allowed her to command some of his troops. To everyone’s shock and wonder, she scored a series of triumphs over the English. News rapidly spread about this remarkable young girl. With each victory, her reputation began to grow, until she became a folk heroine, rallying the French around her. French troops, once on the verge of total collapse, scored decisive victories that paved the way for the coronation of the new king. However, she was betrayed and captured by the English. They realized what a threat she posed to them, since she was a potent symbol for the French and claimed guidance directly from God Himself, so they subjected her to a show trial. After an elaborate interrogation, she was found guilty of heresy and burned at the stake at the age of nineteen in 1431. In the centuries that followed, hundreds of attempts have been made to understand this remarkable teenager. Was she a prophet, a saint, or a madwoman? More recently, scientists have tried to use modern psychiatry and neuroscience to explain the lives of historical figures such as Joan of Arc. Few question her sincerity about claims of divine inspiration. But many scientists have written that she might have suffered from schizophrenia, since she heard voices. Others have disputed this fact, since the surviving records of her trial reveal a person of rational thought and speech. The English laid several theological traps for her. They asked, for example, if she was in God’s grace. If she answered yes, then she would be a heretic, since no one can know for certain if they are in God’s grace. If she said no, then she was confessing her guilt, and that she was a fraud. Either way, she would lose. In a response that stunned the audience, she answered, “If I am not, may God put me there; and if I am, may God so keep me.” The court notary, in the records, wrote, “Those who were interrogating her were stupefied.” In fact, the transcripts of her interrogation are so remarkable that George Bernard Shaw put literal translations of the court record in his play Saint Joan. More recently, another theory has emerged about this exceptional woman: perhaps she actually suffered from temporal lobe epilepsy. People who have this condition sometimes experience seizures, but some of them also experience a curious side effect that may shed some light on the structure of human beliefs. These patients suffer from “hyperreligiosity,” and can’t help thinking that there is a spirit or presence behind everything. Random events are never random, but have some deep religious significance. Some psychologists have speculated that a number of history’s prophets suffered from these temporal lobe epileptic lesions, since they were convinced they talked to God.

The chaos of events in the Inner Court still raged in her mind, like one of those fever dreams where image upon disjointed image pile up before the mind’s eye in a nauseating, strobing mass that doesn’t even have the saving grace of dream logic.

we also see two things that are very salient for Napoleon –   1. Whenever he saw an opportunity, he immediately felt a strong desire to seize it with bold and lightning-quick action.   2. When threatened or in a dangerous situation, his default inclination was to attack.   A lot of his success came from #1 – this is where came his bold actions to join the French army, to defect from one of his posts (where he was luckily rewarded with a promotion instead of a court-martial; it could have gone either way); his hurrying back to France from Egypt in the chaos of Second Coalition defeats of France; etc.   But later it became the first piece of his eventual downfall, the opportunistic seizing of the Throne of Spain and betrayal of his Spanish allies. It was not reasoned-through or carefully planned enough – he saw the weakness of the Spanish monarchy and just immediately seized upon it.   A lot of his success likewise came from #2 – Austerlitz is the most famous – but eventually, he followed this pattern into the Russian Campaign with disastrous consequences.

. . . Few people can say of themselves that they are free of the belief that this world which they see around them is in reality the work of their own imagination. Are we pleased with it, proud of it, then?

Then he stepped over that line between chaos and order, danger and safety.

Reconstructing family life amid the chaos of the cotton revolution was no easy matter. Under the best of circumstances, the slave family on the frontier was extraordinarily unstable because the frontier plantation was extraordinarily unstable. For every aspiring master who climbed into the planter class, dozens failed because of undercapitalization, unproductive land, insect infestation, bad weather, or sheer incompetence. Others, discouraged by low prices and disdainful of the primitive conditions, simply gave up and returned home. Those who succeeded often did so only after they had failed numerous times. Each failure or near-failure caused slaves to be sold, shattering families and scattering husbands and wives, parents and children. Success, moreover, was no guarantee of security for slaves. Disease and violence struck down some of the most successful planters. Not even longevity assured stability, as many successful planters looked west for still greater challenges. Whatever the source, the chronic volatility of the plantation took its toll on the domestic life of slaves. Despite these difficulties, the family became the center of slave life in the interior, as it was on the seaboard. From the slaves' perspective, the most important role they played was not that of field hand or mechanic but husband or wife, son or daughter - the precise opposite of their owners' calculation. As in Virginia and the Carolinas, the family became the locus of socialization, education, governance, and vocational training. Slave families guided courting patterns, marriage rituals, child-rearing practices, and the division of domestic labor in Alabama, Mississippi, and beyond. Sally Anne Chambers, who grew up in Louisiana, recalled how slaves turned to the business of family on Saturdays and Sundays. 'De women do dey own washing den. De menfolks tend to de gardens round dey own house. Dey raise some cotton and sell it to massa and git li'l money dat way.' As Sally Anne Chambers's memories reveal, the reconstructed slave family was more than a source of affection. It was a demanding institution that defined responsibilities and enforced obligations, even as it provided a source of succor. Parents taught their children that a careless word in the presence of the master or mistress could spell disaster. Children and the elderly, not yet or no longer laboring in the masters' fields, often worked in the slaves' gardens and grounds, as did new arrivals who might be placed in the household of an established family. Charles Ball, sold south from Maryland, was accepted into his new family but only when he agreed to contribute all of his overwork 'earnings into the family stock.' The 'family stock' reveals how the slaves' economy undergirded the slave family in the southern interior, just as it had on the seaboard. As slaves gained access to gardens and grounds, overwork, or the sale of handicraft, they began trading independently and accumulating property. The material linkages of sellers and buyers - the bartering of goods and labor among themselves - began to knit slaves together into working groups that were often based on familial connections. Before long, systems of ownership and inheritance emerged, joining men and women together on a foundation of need as well as affection.

On jest moim bratem. Ale to nie moja wina.

But my host was looking at Tamlin now, who slowly faced my dead body. Tamlin's still-masked face twisted into something truly lupine as he raised his eyes to the queen and snarled. Fangs lengthened. Amarantha backed away- away from my corpse. She only whispered 'Please' before golden light exploded. The queen was blasted back, thrown against the far wall, and Tamlin let out a roar that shoot the mountain as he launched himself at her. He shifted into his beast form faster than I could see- fur and claws and pound upon pound of lethal muscle. She had no sooner hit the wall than he gripped her by the neck, and the stones cracked as he shoved her against it with a clawed paw. She thrashed but could do nothing against the brutal onslaught of Tamlin's beast. Blood ran down his furred arm from where she scratched. ... Amarantha screeched, kicking at Tamlin, lashing at him with her dark magic, but a wall of gold encompassed his fur like a second skin. She couldn't touch him. 'Tam!' Lucien cried over the chaos. A sword hurtled through the air, a shooting star of steel. Tamlin caught it in his massive paw. Amarantha's scream was cut short as he drove the sword through her head and into the stone beneath. And then closed his powerful jaws around her throat- and ripped it out.

Pain is a part of existing. Pain is beautiful,” he murmurs, reaching down to me and curling a stray lock of hair around his thumb. “Pain lets us know it’s worth doing. Without pain, there is no balance. Without balance, there is chaos. Pain is a teacher, a reminder, and pain is proof of life.

I’ve a new country place, quite secluded, with all the amenities. Why not return to the Courts with me rather than bouncing around from hazard to hazard? Lie low for a couple of years, enjoy the good life, catch up on your reading. I’ll see you’re well protected. Let everything blow over, then go about your business in a more peaceful climate.” I took a small sip of the fiery drink. “No,” I said. “What happened to those things you indicated earlier that you knew and I didn’t?” “Hardly important, if you decide to accept my offer.” “Even if I were to accept, I’d want to know.” “Bags of worms,” he said. “You listened to my story. I’ll listen to yours.

According to International Diabetes Foundation, diabetes had long moved from being “a rich man’s disease”. With diabetes now affecting all the segments of Indian population, India stands on the verge of becoming “the diabetes capital of the world” with around 61 million people affected by the disease and expecting to cross 100 million people by 2030. Given the scale of diabetes epidemic, the NPPA justified its price control orders. On hearing the above, all hell broke loose in the Indian Pharma. The Indian pharma industry reacted very aggressively to this decision. Both Indian and multinationals raised concerns that “India’s investment image” had gone to the dogs and that the industry would have to shut down if the same trend continues. The Indian pharma lobbies also filed in the Delhi and Bombay High Courts, and prayed for a stay order which they were not granted, as many Supreme Court judgments had earlier justified price controls on medicines in public interest Modi’s Government rescues India’s Investment Image Given the relentless Industry demands, the Modi government decided to clip the wings of NPPA which was supposedly an expert body of regulators and withdrew their powers to pass such orders in the future. The decision of Modi government to withdraw the powers of the National Pharmaceutical Pricing Authority (NPPA) to set price caps on drugs raises serious questions on the state’s commitment to the welfare of the poor. As a result, over 108 essential drugs will now lie outside the ambit of NPPA and its internal guidelines on regulation and control of drugs would cease to apply to them. According to the government, the reasoning for withdrawal of powers of NPPA and clipping of its wings was because “it lacked legality”. Interestingly, the Modi government has found that NPPA was not legally competent to pass price control orders after over 17 years of its creation and immediately after it passed orders that would restrain pharma companies from making super normal profits.

What happened?” I croaked, and she came to my side, offering me a cool drink. “You’re fine,” she soothed. “Both of you are fine. Just lie still.” “But…how did I come to be here?” “You and my son passed out. No one knows how or why, but a lot of people lost consciousness. The Cokyrian commander summoned physicians to treat everyone, then my Lord Landru found you and brought you both here.” “I need to go home. My mother must be frantic.” I struggled to sit upright, then fell back, my head pounding, nausea sweeping through me that was so debilitating I would have gladly traded it for a hangover. “Shaselle, are you all right?” It was Grayden, his voice weak and confused. His mother replaced the damp cloth on my brow, then went to offer him something to drink. “I think I will be,” I managed in response. I heard voices in the foyer, then Lord Landru strode into the parlor. “She’s there, Cannan,” he said, and my uncle approached, his atypical worry lines relaxing when he realized I was conscious. “How are you, Shaselle?” “Never better.” He laughed in pure relief. “I’m going to let you rest here for a while yet. Then I’ll return and take you home. But you’re going to be just fine.” “What went wrong, Uncle? Everyone was so happy, and then…it was chaos.” “I know. There was a disturbance--Hytanican caused, I’m afraid. But the Cokyrians were only too eager to respond. Feebly armed Hytanicans in various stages of inebriation were no match for sober, well-armed and well-trained Cokyrian soldiers. It would have been a bloodbath had it not been for Commander Narian.” Cannan shook his head, as if trying to figure something out. “I’m not sure what he did, but he must have been anticipating trouble. He released some type of poison--no, not a poison. But some type of airborne substance that knocked everybody off their feet. Shut the fighting down at once.” He placed a hand on my cheek, brushing away a few wisps of my hair. “You no doubt feel poorly right now, but I’ve been told the effects wear off in a few hours. You’ll be back to normal after that.” “Captain, sir?” It was Grayden. My uncle gazed over at him in surprise. “Yes?” “This may not be the ideal time to ask, but, would you please permit me to court Shaselle?” There was stunned silence in the room, then loud laughter. “I’d be a fool to deny you a chance with my niece. Assuming Shaselle favors the idea.” “I do, Uncle,” I assured him, easily slipping back toward sleep, images of Grayden and Saadi drifting through my head. Then a remembrance of Queen Alera and Commander Narian came to the forefront--how deferential he had been with her when I had been caught with that dagger, how she had looked at him. And I knew two things with absolute certainty. She was in love with him, and he had to be a good man.

kings. In this exiled pocket of space and time, however, they were pathetic! The members of the Dark Court fought each other for the meager scraps of power the Queen doled out, like cubs at her teat! Though he also lived at her mercy, the Prince

Somehow in the chaos and mess she'd discovered who she was. Not a girl of the streets, though that was where she'd been raised. Not a woman of the court, though she appreciated the beauty and the grace of the balls. Someone else. Someone she liked.

The other members of the legal fraternity especially the court officers/lawyers should be encouraged to aid in interpretation of statutes by handing down suggestions to the legislators through a proper channel which shall be specially devised for the purpose. When legal experts fail to  exercise their professional prudence,  the purpose of law, receives a major blow, and on the contrary leads to chaos and exogenous delivery of justice oblivious of the intention of the legislature/law maker in promulgating a particular statute.

Typical human lungs pack in a surface bigger than a tennis court.

The Greand Pattern of Amber, Emblem of Order Matching in power the Great Logrus of the Courts, Sign of Chaos. The tensions between the two seem to generate everything that matters. Get involved with either, lose control-and you’re done for. Just my luck to be involved with both.

Dumai said you were once called a flower grown for court. I do not see that as an insult, but an endorsement. A flower in a world of ash is proof that life endures

She inclined her head and Mandor approached, dropped to one knee, and raised her hand to his lips. He’s better as such courtly gestures than I am, not even sniffing the back of her hand for the scent of bitter almonds. I could tell that she liked his manner-and she continued to study him afterward.

I’d so wanted Rinaldo to acquire more of the courtly graces, rather than doing rude things on horseback much of the time,” she continued, glancing at Mandor and granting him a small smile. “In this, I was disappointed.

I’d rather not see Jurt dead,” he stated, “if there’s a possibility I could take him back to the Courts a prisoner. He could be disciplined. There might be a way of neutralizing him without really…neutralizing him, as you put it.

There are parts of the Courts of Chaos to which no one can trump because they change constantly and cannot be represented in a permanent fashion.

We take it for granted that we can sing and dance together, march in step, clap in unison. Sync is second nature to us. But because it comes so easily, we have poor insight about what it actually demands. It seems to involve at least a low level of intelligence, the ability to time our behavior and anticipate that of others. Which is why the reports of concerted flashing among thousands of fireflies aroused such skepticism for so many years, and why we are impressed by the chorusing of crickets or the seductive tactics of male fiddler crabs, who court a female by waving their gargantuan claws at her in unison.

In internet slang, a “troll” is an attention seeker who traffics in inflammatory rhetoric to antagonize and sow chaos and discord.

Quand, en 1986, la mort dans l'âme, n'ayant plus d'autre recours, j'ai été contraint de déserter mon pays natal, dès les premières journées à Paris, Alexandre Papilian s'empressa de me tendre une main secourable, sollicitant promptement, alors que je n'avais pas encore obtenu le moindre document légal ni, partant, le « droit au travail », ma collaboration à la RFI (auprès de laquelle lui-même n'exerçait qu'en vague pigiste) ; je lui proposai donc un papier sur le nouveau livre de Marthe Robert : « Le puits de Babel ». Il accepta d'emblée (après consultation avec sa supérieure, Mme Cella Minart, cela va de soi) mon manuscrit trop long (car, comme dit Pascal, je n'avais pas eu le loisir de le faire plus court), des feuilles presque illisibles, griffonnées à la hâte et dans le chaos mental, entre deux visites à la préfecture de police ; après l'avoir mis en bonne (et due…) forme, il le tapa à la machine, car j'étais nul même pour ça, parmi tant d'autres, tout ce que je savais faire c'était gribouiller, maladroit, mal assuré, « un truc », excusez du peu, « sur la littérature »… (pp. 290-291)

What happened to the High King?” Feyre asked. Rhys ran a hand over a page of the book. “Fionn was betrayed by his queen, who had been leader of her own territory, and by his dearest friend, who was his general. They killed him, taking some of his bloodline’s most powerful and precious weapons, and then out of the chaos that followed, the seven High Lords rose, and the courts have been in place ever since.” Feyre asked, “Does Amren remember this?” Rhys shook his head. “Only vaguely now. From what I’ve gleaned, she arrived during those years before Fionn and Gwydion rose, and went into the Prison during the Age of Legends—the time when this land was full of heroic figures who were keen to hunt down the last members of their former masters’ race. They feared Amren, believing her one of their enemies, and threw her into the Prison. When she emerged again, she’d missed Fionn’s fall and the loss of Gwydion, and found the High Lords ruling.” Nesta considered all Lanthys had said. “And what is Narben?” “Lanthys asked about it?” “He said my sword isn’t Narben. He sounded surprised.” Rhys studied her blade. “Narben is a death-sword. It’s lost, possibly destroyed, but stories say it can slay even monsters like Lanthys.

It is better for Russia or Ukraine because they know who their enemies are and who they are fighting . Us we don’t know who our enemies are , but they keep on fighting us from within. They are using our people. They are using our resources. They are using our intelligence’s. They are using our media. They are using our platform. They are using our parliament. They are using our constitution. They are using our buildings. They are using our court. They had infiltrated us. We had been compromised. They are within us. They are now one of our own. our NGO’s, our foundations, our political parties, our Media houses , our journalists , our institutions, our politicians, and our analysts. That is why we have internal wars that never ends but results into factions and sabotaging. These Internal battles are started by these agents of destruction. These hired guns or spies within us. There are there to break the system, cause confusion, dysfunction, destabilization, chaos ,spread propaganda and to promote divisive politics. They are there to poison the minds of our people. Our enemies are next to us. We see them and great them everyday. While they are plotting against us . Judas Iscariot is not the only one to sell his friend and he won’t be the last.

All whose origins involve Chaos are shapeshifters,

Where did she come from?” The brooch he’d given her—such a small gift, for a monster who had once dwelled here. “I don’t know. Though there are legends that claim when the world was born, there were … rips in the fabric of the realms. That in the chaos of Forming, creatures from other worlds could walk through one of those rips and enter another world. But the rips closed at will, and the creatures could become trapped, with no way home.

Life and death and rebirth Sun and moon and dark Rot and bloom and bones Hello, sweet thing. Hello, lady of night, princess of decay. Hello, fanged beast and trembling fawn. Love me, touch me, sing me. Madness. Where the first half had been cold cunning, this box … this was chaos, and disorder, and lawlessness, joy and despair.

The problem is that man needed rules, laws, governments, courts, armies, a police force, because he lost the natural behavior of an animal and he has not yet gained a new natural status again. He is just in between. He is nowhere, he is a chaos. To control that chaos all these things are needed.

Though there are legends that claim when the world was born, there were … rips in the fabric of the realms. That in the chaos of Forming, creatures from other worlds could walk through one of those rips and enter another world. But the rips closed at will, and the creatures could become trapped, with no way home.

I don’t know. Though there are legends that claim when the world was born, there were … rips in the fabric of the realms. That in the chaos of Forming, creatures from other worlds could walk through one of those rips and enter another world. But the rips closed at will, and the creatures could become trapped, with no way home.

I can see through Shadow, Corwin.

No two authors can render the same story in the same fashion.

Battle is not a game, and I had no desire to make myself available to any presumptuous ass who thought otherwise.

You forgive me?” he said. “You, who left me in that tower, who put a knife into my side? Thank you, sister. It is very kind of you to forgive me, but excuse me if I decline.

The man in green was seated on a rock. His bow and quiver lay beside him on the ground. He flashed an evil smile in my direction.

A few drops of hope fell upon my heart.

Do you honestly think I am going to let you die? I need you-as many of you as I can save.

You ever kill yourself, Corwin?” “Not recently. How’d you manage it?

I still thought you might be behind the whole thing. You or Brand. I had it narrowed down that far. I thought it might even be the two of you together-especially with him struggling to bring you back.

You will have my old cell,” I said. “No, the one next to it.

My sense of Shadow was dulled in this place which seemed in some way the essence of Shadow.

Corwin,” he stated then, “it pleases me more than I can say to see you die not knowing something that means that much for you.

How long will you plague me, brother? How far must I go to bring it to an end between us?

Why should I suddenly remember 1905 and Paris on the shadow Earth, save that I was very happy that year and I might, reflectively, have sought an antidote for the present?

My children, I cannot say that I am entirely pleased with you, but I suppose this works both ways. Let it be. I leave you with my blessing, which is more than a formality.

You are the only ones who can appreciate my triumph.

You have preserved your mystery. Rest in peace, if that be your will. I give you this withered rose I have borne through hell, casting it into the abyss. I leave you this rose and the twisted colors of the sky.

It would seem we have small chance but to be dutiful in the end.

Would I see everything stripped of meaning, form, content, life, when things had been pushed to a kind of completion?

The red bird, the Jewel bearer, born of my blood from my father’s hand, had returned to defend me.

You’ve no objection to a bird of ill omen, following you, have you, Corwin?

It would have been so fine,” it said softly, “to eat a Prince of Amber. I always wondered-about royal blood.

I had run out of causes and was close as I ever might be to peace.

Bleys, you are still a figure clad in light to me-valiant, exuberent, and rash. For the first my respect, for the second, my smile.

He was staring at me as he advanced, no special expression on that face so like my own.

Sorry about the horse,” he said. “I was aiming at you.

No sense in looking for our differences when I had just met him.

I saw my face in your own. It was strange. I wanted to know you better.

For a moment, I felt that I saw something of pity and a strong love reflected there-and perhaps a touch of humor.

We were more alike than we were different, he and I.

I grasped after the ghost of a memory. It vanished.

The waves move outward from Amber and this, too, may pass away-and me along with it.

It is him, Random. Him. That’s all.

I think he knows exactly what he is doing, and whether we like it or not, I think he is the only one who can deal with the present situation.

Chess simulates a truth that we tend to suppress, namely that life is hazardous and we are always at risk. The game is fun but is not entirely innocent fun which is why we tend to reach for chess metaphors in tense situations with high stakes. Love for instance, is a tense situation with high stakes. Or at least it can be. Historically various works of art and literature associate chess with courtly love and by extension with love in general. However chess is a metaphor for love not because the players long for each another or want to knock down the pieces and make out on the board - though there is of course a time and place for that. The link between chess and love is much more oblique. The spirit of eros permeates the game in the forms of suffering and passion that characterise unrequited and unconsummated romantic love ... And shared attention of any process of co creation is a rare and profoundly intimate process. In fact the intimacy we feel through shared attention may be an unconscious emotional driver that keeps us coming back to the game. Moreover, chess thinking in some ways entails compassion because it is about cultivating order through chaos through caring about the felt significance of particular pieces and squares and ideas and outcomes … Caring is a fundamental feature of being in the world … Controlling for all other variables, those given a potted plant to look after consistently lived longer than those who were not.

A society in which the unifying bond is dismissed progressively becomes an agglomeration of atoms. Finally, the disorganized cry out for a totalitarian force to “organize” the chaos. Thus is atheistic socialism born. As education, when it loses its philosophy of life, breaks up into departments without any integration or unity except the accidental one of proximity and time, and as a body, when it loses its soul, breaks up into its chemical components, so a family, when it loses the unifying bond of love, breaks up in the divorce court.

What happens when you build an organization that’s flat and open and treats employees with respect? What happens when you expect a lot and trust the people you work with? At first, it seems crazy. There’s too much overhead, too little predictability, and way too much noise. This isn’t the top-down model of the factory, or the king and his court. It’s chaos. It’s easy to reject out of hand. Then, over and over, we see something happen. When you hire amazing people and give them freedom, they do amazing stuff.

An animal’s ability to absorb oxygen is roughly proportional to the surface area of its lungs. Typical human lungs pack in a surface bigger than a tennis court. As an added complication, the labyrinth of windpipes must merge efficiently with the arteries and veins.

The main character in Nixonland is not Richard Nixon. Its protagonist, in fact, has no name--but lives on every page. It is the voter who, in 1964, pulled the lever for the Democrat for president because to do anything else, at least that particular Tuesday in November, seemed to court civilizational chaos, and who, eight years later, pulled the lever for the Republican for exactly the same reason.

8 more months for 2020 Not a lot, but still plenty... 9 months in 2021 I just know I have to be done. Chaos now, balance hopefully soon. Not all doom and gloom. It's been 17-18 years of my lifework. Of me being an outstanding Court Clerk!!

Republicans too have seen the influence of money from China. Since 2015, Kentucky Senator Mitch McConnell has been Senate majority leader and the most powerful man in Washington after the president. Once a hardliner, in the 1990s he became a noted China dove (although in 2019, in a likely instance of ‘big help with a little badmouth’, he voiced support for Hong Kong protesters37). In 1993 he married the daughter of one of his donors, Chinese-American businessman James Chao. Elaine Chao went on to serve as secretary of labor under President George W. Bush and in 2017 was sworn in as President Trump’s transportation secretary. She wasted no time organising a trip to China that included meetings between members of her family and Chinese government officials, a plan that was spiked only when the State Department raised ethical concerns.38 James Chao has excellent guanxi—connections—in China, including his classmate Jiang Zemin, the powerful former president of China. Chao became rich through his shipping company, Foremost Group, which flourished due to its close association with the state-owned behemoth the China State Shipbuilding Corporation. McConnell, after his marriage to Chao’s daughter, was courted by the highest CCP leaders, and his in-laws were soon doing deals with Chinese government corporations.

You would need a drink if you’d been stuck in a cave with Tizzy going on and on the whole time. If not talking to us or irritating Talarius, he would just start up conversations with himself,” Edwyrd said, smiling. “You mean like the heated debate he had with himself over ruined buildings in the Courts of Chaos? And why someone might choose to live in a ruin?” Antefalken asked, laughing.

As during his reality television days, Trump shakes up the status of players, and positions are cast more than filled. Firings create court intrigue that reporters will pounce on while ignoring the steady spread of rot. But there is consistency within the contrived chaos. As in foreign kleptocracies, the glue that holds the Trump administration together is nepotism.

You ever go to one of those arcade pizza joints as a child? You’re usually there because it’s some other kid’s birthday, or worse, because your parent hates raising you so much they’d do anything just to keep you distracted for ten minutes in exchange for a pitcher of watered-down beer. The whole place is chaos. There’s flashing lights, blaring music, a colorful carpet that hides the vomit stains. Not to mention the norovirus-infested ball pit, the rickety merry-go-round, the workers with dead eyes, and the pizza that tastes like it was cooked in a Soviet-era microwave? All the while an animatronic rodent holds court on stage, blinking and rotating and telling you that he is now your god.

Shout with joy to the Lord, all the earth! Worship the Lord with gladness. Come before him, singing with joy. Acknowledge that the Lord is God! He made us, and we are his. We are his people, the sheep of his pasture. Enter his gates with thanksgiving; go into his courts with praise. Give thanks to him and praise his name. For the Lord is good. His unfailing love continues forever, and his faithfulness continues to each generation.

Hailed in his lifetime as ‘the Peacemaker’, Edward VII was spared the destruction of the European order of courts and crowned cousins in which he had been the dominant figure. Both of his imperial nephews, Tsar Nicholas of Russia and Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany, were brought low. Along with his wife and all of their children, Nicholas was butchered by the Bolsheviks in the summer of 1918. The year before, George V, worried about his own position, had resisted the suggestion that they should be given refuge in Britain. Once the news of their murders had been confirmed, he despatched a battleship to the Crimea to rescue his aunt, the Dowager Empress Marie, as well as a large party of her relations and retainers. Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovich, who had represented Nicholas at Edward’s funeral, was not among them. The first of the Romanovs to die, he had been taken into a forest in the Urals and shot a month before his elder brother. In the chaos that enveloped Russia during that terrible period, another, more improbable, victim met his end. Minoru, the royal racehorse which had swept to victory in the Epsom Derby of 1909, had subsequently been sold to a stud near Kharkiv for £20,000. He was last seen struggling to draw a cart on the 900-mile evacuation from Moscow to the Black Sea.