Coventry Quotes

Maybe reading was just a way to make her feel less alone, to keep her company. When you read something you are stopped, the moment is stayed, you can sometimes be there more fully than you can in your real life.

To one who waits, all things reveal themselves so long as you have the courage not to deny in the darkness what you have seen in the light.

She was the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes upon, and for a moment, he wished he could keep her.

I've always loved books. I'm passionate about them. I think books are sexy. They are smooth and solid and contain delightful surprises. They smell good. They fit into a handbag and can be carried around and opened at will. They don't change. They are what they are and nothing else. One day I want to own a lot of books and have them nbear to me in my house, so that I can stroll to my bookshelves and choose what I fancy. I want a harem. I shall keep my favourites by my bed.

Smile, I do as I march an inch further towards my funeral. My broken skeleton calls for its tomb beneath Coventry cathedral, where I can hear the tunes of saintly people.

She blinked her eyes open, her lips parted and cheeks flushed, looking every bit like a goddess before him. And if he were a better man, he wouldn’t have been able to taint such purity. But he wasn’t a better man, and there was no turning back now.

To him that waits all things reveal themselves,' provided that he has the courage not to deny, in the darkness, what he has seen in the light.

You already know all about monsters,” he said regretfully. “Don’t you kitten?

It's over," Keelie said. Too bad. But I want you to know, I will always love you." She narrowed her eyes and said, "When you look at me and say that, are you thinking of Dolly Parton or Whitney Houston?" Burt Reynolds," he said. She nearly spit out her coffee when she laughed, then she said, "That almost makes me want to try again.

It is a sore thing to have laboured along and scaled the arduous hilltops, and when all is done, find humanity indifferent to your achievement. Hence physicists condemn the unphysical; financiers have only a superficial toleration for those who know little of stocks; literary persons despise the unlettered; and people of all pursuits combine to disparage those who have none. But though this is one difficulty of the subject, it is not the greatest. You could not be put in prison for speaking against industry, but you can be sent to Coventry for speaking like a fool. The greatest difficulty with most subjects is to do them well; therefore, please to remember this is an apology. It is certain that much may be judiciously argued in favour of diligence; only there is something to be said against it, and that is what, on the present occasion, I have to say.

At the first of the funerals the bishop of Coventry said, “Let us vow before God to be better friends and neighbors in the future, because we have suffered this together and have stood here today.

God, being altogether too large an order, did not worry him: he could not conceive of any censure being more terrific than, say, Joey Fetherstonhaugh’s, who kept in the rooms below, or of any Hell as bitter as Coventry.

Indeed, we believe everyone has a book in them - a book, not a symphony, and not even a poem. What is it, this book everyone has in them? It is, perhaps, that haunting entity, the 'true' self. The true self seeks release, not constraint.

Language is not only the medium through which existence is transacted, it constitutes our central experiences of social and moral content, of such concepts as freedom and truth, and, most importantly, of indivduality and the self; it is also a system of lies, evasions, propaganda, misrepresentation, and conformity.

The truth often appears in the guise of a threat to the social code. It has this in common with rudeness. When people tell the truth, they can experience a feeling of release from pretence that is perhaps similar to the release of rudeness. It might follow that people can mistake truth for rudeness, and rudeness for truth. It may only be by examining the aftermath of each that it becomes possible to prove which was which.

It was how she felt every time she read—that temporary escape from reality that was as necessary as breathing. The Perfect Distraction

I like being mistaken for someone useful.

The rules of writing are mostly indistinguishable from the rules of living, but this tends to be the last place people look when searching for 'there'.

Would anyone remember the story of Godiva if she lowered Coventry's taxes without taking her clothes off?

Parliamentary prisoners were often sent to Coventry under armed guard; hence the familiar expression.

Montana, Massachusetts, Coventry Island - Sister T*Witch," Alex said, "wherever we’re together, that’s home.

The families are on display – it’s part of how they function. Families tend to be conscious of being looked at: they perform themselves as though in expectation of a response, a judgement. I suppose they are exposing what they have created, as an artist feels compelled to do.

Germany could not gain complete air superiority unless she could knock out our Air Force, and the aircraft industries, some vital portions of which are concentrated at Coventry and Birmingham.

Ah got invited for my tea but ah’m no sure about her husband, this moaning-faced cunt fae Coventry who seems totally depressed aw the time. We can aw get that wey, but ye cannae let them beat ye and grind ye doon. Pecker up at aw times.

Hannah, clutching a bouquet of sunflowers to her chest like she had just won the Mrs. Coventry County pageant, found me in an herbalist's tent, rubbing lavender-scented lotion into my palms. I leaned over to her. 'They should name this Eau de Grandmother.

[The abnihilisation of the etym by the first lord of Hurtreford expolodoto- nates with an ivanmorinthorrorumble fragoromboassity amidwhiches are perceivable moletons skaping with muleheels while coventry plumpkins fair- lygosmotherthemselves in the Landaunelegants of Pinkadindy. Similar scenate are projectilised from Hullolullu, Bawlawayo, empyreal Raum and mordern Atems. It is precisely the twelve of clocks, noon minutes, none seconds. At someseat of Oldanelang’s Konguerrig, by dawnybreak in Aira] (353.22–32 and 47480–65; JJA 55: 121)

Jee haan, but they are the same! One hunts, one runs; one chews the carrot, one chews the Sir John Hurt. One makes eggs that go BANG! One makes Acme traps that go BANG! See? Sameful. Only Mr. Looney of the Tunes is more actual, on account of how aliens live in your big Danesh-head and bunny rabbits live in Coventry.

He meets, by heavenly chance express, The destined maid; some hidden hand Unveils to him that loveliness Which others cannot understand. His merits in her presence grow, To match the promise in her eyes, And round her happy footsteps blow The authentic airs of paradise.… —COVENTRY PATMORE, The Angel in the House, 1854.

Life is not life at all without delight.

If you wear out your body, where are you going to live?

She didn’t want to be judged for her ugliest moments, and she refused to judge others for theirs.

It is not as though she's greedy for happiness, but she wishes that she'd been able to recognize it completely when she had it.

Ireland, like Ukraine, is a largely rural country which suffers from its proximity to a more powerful industrialised neighbour. Ireland’s contribution to the history of tractors is the genius engineer Harry Ferguson, who was born in 1884, near Belfast. Ferguson was a clever and mischievous man, who also had a passion for aviation. It is said that he was the first man in Great Britain to build and fly his own aircraft in 1909. But he soon came to believe that improving efficiency of food production would be his unique service to mankind. Harry Ferguson’s first two-furrow plough was attached to the chassis of the Ford Model T car converted into a tractor, aptly named Eros. This plough was mounted on the rear of the tractor, and through ingenious use of balance springs it could be raised or lowered by the driver using a lever beside his seat. Ford, meanwhile, was developing its own tractors. The Ferguson design was more advanced, and made use of hydraulic linkage, but Ferguson knew that despite his engineering genius, he could not achieve his dream on his own. He needed a larger company to produce his design. So he made an informal agreement with Henry Ford, sealed only by a handshake. This Ford-Ferguson partnership gave to the world a new type of Fordson tractor far superior to any that had been known before, and the precursor of all modern-type tractors. However, this agreement by a handshake collapsed in 1947 when Henry Ford II took over the empire of his father, and started to produce a new Ford 8N tractor, using the Ferguson system. Ferguson’s open and cheerful nature was no match for the ruthless mentality of the American businessman. The matter was decided in court in 1951. Ferguson claimed $240 million, but was awarded only $9.25 million. Undaunted in spirit, Ferguson had a new idea. He approached the Standard Motor Company at Coventry with a plan, to adapt the Vanguard car for use as tractor. But this design had to be modified, because petrol was still rationed in the post-war period. The biggest challenge for Ferguson was the move from petrol-driven to diesel-driven engines and his success gave rise to the famous TE-20, of which more than half a million were built in the UK. Ferguson will be remembered for bringing together two great engineering stories of our time, the tractor and the family car, agriculture and transport, both of which have contributed so richly to the well-being of mankind.

Chapter 1 14th November 1940: Coventry, England. Boom. Boom. The ground vibrated with each explosion. Unfamiliar sounds surrounded Rose Sherbourne as her body received blow after blow from displaced items of furniture. She jumped when shattering glass hit falling bricks, and everything around her crashed under their weight. Boom. Another explosion, followed by the sound of metal hitting metal, echoed out around Rose’s ears and her breath came thick and fast. Through the opening of what was once the front room, a sudden blast of hot air blew both her and her mother off their feet. Rose’s body fell against something hard and a searing pain shot through her back. For a few seconds she could not see, and she blinked, only to feel fine dust fall on her cheeks and into her eyes yet again. She wiped it away with the back of her hand and prepared herself to scrabble upright. Boom. A wall fell around her and, unable to move both with fear and because something was pinning down her right leg, Rose took a moment to catch her breath. Above her an intense whistling sound screamed from the sky, followed by an eerie whooshing sound. A continuous whistle followed. Rose held her breath.

The Toys My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, Having my law the seventh time disobey'd, I struck him, and dismiss'd With hard words and unkiss'd, —His Mother, who was patient, being dead. Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, I visited his bed, But found him slumbering deep, With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet From his late sobbing wet. And I, with moan, Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; For, on a table drawn beside his head, He had put, within his reach, A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone, A piece of glass abraded by the beach, And six or seven shells, A bottle with bluebells, And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, To comfort his sad heart. So when that night I pray'd To God, I wept, and said: Ah, when at last we lie with trancèd breath, Not vexing Thee in death, And Thou rememberest of what toys We made our joys, How weakly understood Thy great commanded good, Then, fatherly not less Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, 'I will be sorry for their childishness.

In marriage, the woman compensates for her lack of external power by commandeering the story. Isn't that right? She fills the silence, the mystery of her own acts and aims, with a structured account of life whose relationship to the truth might sometimes be described as voluntary. I am familiar with that account: I spent my childhood listening to it. And what I noticed was how, over the years, its repetitions and elisions and exaggerations ceased to exasperate its listeners so much as silence them. After a while, people stopped bothering to try to put the record straight: on the contrary, they became, in a curious way, dependent on the teller of this tale, in which they featured as central characters. The sheer energy and wilful, self-constructing logic of narrative, which at first made one cringe and protest every time the truth was dented, came over time to seem preferable to elusive, chaotic reality.

It's after five now so you're officially off the clock. I'm no longer your boss. I'm just Liam, and I'd like to take you for a ride. From Anything for You (coming soon)

Waiting with hands behind his back until the tumult subsided, Parnell calmly resumed: Now I think I heard somebody say, “Shoot him!” [Cheers] but I wish to point out to you a very much better way, a more Christian and a more charitable way.… You must shun him on the roadside when you meet him, you must shun him in the streets of the town, you must shun him at the shop counter, you must shun him in the fair and in the marketplace, and even in the house of worship, by leaving him severely alone, by putting him into a moral Coventry, by isolating him from his kind as if he was a leper of old.

When the traffic is at a standstill, some of the smaller cottages look dwarfed by the cars. It is possible for the people in the cottages and the cars to look at one another.

There have doubtless been a number of such incidents, but this one has stayed in my mind. One reason, I suppose, has to do with narrative, with the fact that the meaning of this woman’s life was entirely altered by a single event at its end: this is not how stories generally work.

something so small that it would cause passers-by to briefly glance at it and therefore unconsciously decrease their speed, could over time result in the whole motorway coming to a standstill in another place miles away.

Here, in this little Bay, Full of tumultuous life and great repose, Where, twice a day, The purposeless, glad ocean comes and goes, Under high cliffs, and far from the huge town, I sit me down. For want of me the world’s course will not fail: When all its work is done, the lie shall rot; The truth is great, and shall prevail, When none cares whether it prevail or not.

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Redemption is earned. It’s not something you’re given because you say a few magical words at the end of your life when you realize how bad you screwed up.

Of more worth is one honest man to society, and in the sight of God, than all the crowned ruffians that ever lived.

Their parents taught them about limits, whether through seemingly inconsequential daily decisions or through momentous turning points. The inheritors learned through experiencing the consequences of their own behavior and as a result were given the opportunity to discover their own inventiveness and resilience. Parents took the long view, steeling themselves against short-term inconveniences and worries. As we will see, even though in each of these cases the immediate consequences were oftentimes painful and uncertain, the children absorbed the underlying message about the value of effort. They grew up determined, resilient, and grateful.

In the spring of 1519, the Bishop of Coventry received word that certain families were teaching their children the Lord’s Prayer and the Ten Commandments in English. The bishop ordered the arrest of Mr. Hatchets, Mr. Archer, Mr. Hawkins, Mr. Bond, Mr. Wrigsham, Mr. Landsdale and Mrs. Smith. While they were held at an abbey outside of town, their children were brought to Greyfriar’s Monastery in Coventry. The boys and girls were made to stand before Friar Stafford, the abbot. One by one, Stafford interrogated the children about their parents’ beliefs. “Now then,” he told them, “I charge you in the name of God to tell me the whole truth—you shall suffer severely for any lies you tell or secrets you conceal.” “What do you believe about the church and the way to heaven?” he asked them. “Do you go to the services of the parish church? Do you read the Scriptures in English? Do you memorize the Lord’s Prayer or other Scriptures in English?” After getting from the children’s own lips the information he needed to convict their parents, he warned them. “Your parents are heretics!” he bellowed. “They have led you away from the teachings of the church. You are never to meddle again with the Lord’s Prayer or the Ten Commandments or any other Scriptures in English. And if you do—rest assured you will burn at the stake for it!” The next day, the six fathers and Mrs. Smith stood before a panel of judges that included the bishop and Friar Stafford. After presenting the evidence against them—and because the men had been warned before by the bishop not to persist in their Lollard ways—the men were condemned to death by burning. But since this was Mrs. Smith’s first offense, the court dismissed her with a warning not to teach her children the Scriptures in English anymore under pain of death. It was late in the evening when the court dismissed, so the bishop’s assistant decided to see Mrs. Smith home in the dark. As they walked out into the night, he took her arm to lead her across the street. Hearing the rattling of papers within her sleeve, he stopped and said, “Well, what do you have here?” He grabbed her arm, reached into the sleeve and pulled out a little scroll. Under the light of a lantern, he read it and found that it contained handwritten in English the Lord’s Prayer, the Ten Commandments and the Apostle’s Creed. “Well, well,” he said with a sneer. “Come now, this is as good a time as any!” He dragged her back again to the bishop. The panel quickly sentenced her to be burned with the six condemned men and sent her off to prison to await her fate. A few days later, guards led Mrs. Smith and the Lollard men to an open space in the center of Coventry known as Little Park. They tied them to a stake and burned them to death for the crime of teaching their children the Word of God in English.

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One chilly afternoon in February, while as yet the London season had not quite begun, though the streets were busy enough, an open barouche was being rapidly driven along Piccadilly in the direction of Coventry Street; and its two occupants, despite the dull roar of vehicles around them, seemed to be engaged in eager conversation.

okay.” Bentley directed the words to Josie. “We’d be wise

Jack nodded, his mind drifting back to a night in Coventry when he and his wife had been caught in an air raid. He closed his eyes briefly as he thought about her, his throat catching as he recalled the letter she had sent him a week earlier. It had been the first he had received from his wife since arriving in France and he knew that it would be the last. In it she had confirmed all of the wild fantasies that had plagued him for countless nights. In it was the end of the hope he had clung to for so long. The letter had barely been a paragraph long, yet it had destroyed the world that Jack had once known. She had told him that there was another man, an American who was stationed on an airbase near their home. He was, she had told him, an officer. They had been together for two years and she planned to marry him. She had asked for a divorce and had informed him briskly that she intended, when the war was over, to take the children and return with her lover to New York. The letter had been blunt and to the point, there had been no warmth, no consideration in the words, just a cold animosity that Jack could not understand. The wording had suggested that it was his fault that their marriage had fallen apart, that somehow, in some imperceptible way, he had forced her into the arms of another. He felt his blood rising and he forced himself to breathe, his hands white against the stock of his Sten gun as he mulled over the contents of the letter. He had, deep inside, harboured a hope, a small dream that when the war finished they could rebuild their strained marriage. The letter had shattered that illusion and left in its wake a cold reality that had struck Jack like a thunderbolt. He spat onto the ground and wished that he could get five minutes alone with the bastard. All those years of writing to her, of missing her. All those years of struggling in the desert, longing to come home, of pouring his heart into the precious letters he had sent to her. All that time she had been with another man.

When Lady Godiva took her famous ride, the townspeople of Coventry all agreed they wouldn’t watch as she passed by. But supposedly there was one fellow, a tailor named Tom, who violated their agreement by peeping at her through an open shutter. Peeping Tom paid for his lecherous ways.

How much of a priority is Christian formation in our contexts? Does the congregation understand formation in Christ's image as one of its primary purposes and does it dedicate its time and resources accordingly-with special attention to the three ways that Coventry highlights?

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Я всегда любила книги. Я их просто обожаю. По-моему, в книгах есть что-то очень сексуальное. Они гладкие, плотные, они полны восхитительных сюрпризов. Они хорошо пахнут. Их можно положить в сумочку, носить с собой и открывать когда вздумается. Они не меняются. Они такие, какие есть, и больше никакие.

I suppose,” says Jeremy, “what I don’t like is that the moment you fix something, it starts to break down again, that an engine works against itself. By its very act of running, it weakens itself, tries to come undone. Everything is slowly worked loose by the vibrations of the moving engine.” Just like us, thinks Harriet.

She doesn’t want to think of that woman, not now. She’s just one more person who hasn’t kept her promise; just one more person who hasn’t returned to Harriet.

The good thing about books is that they remain themselves. What happens in their pages stays there. Harriet does not like the idea of the story bleeding through into real life. She trusts a story, and doesn’t trust real life. But what makes her trust a story is the knowledge that it will stay where it is, that she can visit it but that there is no chance it will visit her.

It isn’t caused by circumstances. It’s caused by our reactions to circumstances.

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You’re a pain in the butt, but I’m sworn to protect you.

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How had he ever found himself between two decisions such as these—risk Miss Coventry’s life or risk his and Mother’s livelihood?

There was yet another prime example as to why Marianne was a terrible person.

Whenever we read the obscene stories, the voluptuous debaucheries, the cruel and torturous executions, the unrelenting vindictiveness, with which more than half the Bible [NOTE: It must be borne in mind that by the "Bible" Paine always means the Old Testament alone. -- Editor.] is filled, it would be more consistent that we called it the word of a demon, than the Word of God. It is a history of wickedness, that has served to corrupt and brutalize mankind; and, for my own part, I sincerely detest it, as I detest everything that is cruel.

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his son turns against him and joins the king! And no half-measures, either. By all accounts, he’s fighting for Stephen as fiercely as he ever fought for Maud.’ ‘And bear in mind, Philip’s sister is wife to Ranulf of Chester,’ the courier pointed out, ‘and these two changes of heart chime together. Which of them swept the other away with him, or what else lies behind it, God he knows, not I. But there’s the plain fact of it. The king is the fatter by two new allies and a very respectable handful of castles.’ ‘And I’d have said, in no mood to make any concessions, even for the bishops,’ observed Hugh shrewdly. ‘Much more likely to be encouraged, all over again, to believe he can win absolute victory. I doubt if they’ll ever get him to the council table.’ ‘Never underestimate Roger de Clinton,’ said Leicester’s squire, and grinned. ‘He has offered Coventry as the meeting-place, and Stephen has as good as agreed to come and listen. They’re issuing safe conducts already, on both sides. Coventry is a good centre for all, Chester can make use of Mountsorrel to offer hospitality and worm his way into friendships, and the priory has housing enough for all. Oh, there’ll be a meeting! Whether much will come of it is another matter. It won’t please everyone, and there’ll be those who’ll do their worst to wreck it. Philip FitzRobert for one. Oh, he’ll come, if only to confront his father and show that he regrets nothing, but

War is a narrative: it might almost be said to embody the narrative principle itself. It is the attempt to create a story of life, to create agreement. In war, there is no point of view; war is the end of point of view, where violence is welcomed as the final means of arriving at a common version of events.

I, singularly moved To love the lovely that are not beloved, Of all the seasons, most Love winter

Käyttäytyvätkö ihmiset huonosti koska ovat onnettomia? Onko huono käytös kuin alastomuutta, tila joka ansaitsee vaatetettujen hienotunteisuuden ja armon? Olemalla kohteliaita huonosti käyttäytyville annamme heille ehkä takaisin heidän arvokkuutensa; toisaalta huonokäytöksisten pakkomielteisyys asettaa tiettyjä haasteita kohteliaisuuden kannattajien tielle. Huono käytös on hillittömyyttä: päihteen tavoin se tarjoaa huumaavan vapautuksen vanginvartijoilta, joita kukaan muu ei näe.

I have never felt myself to be ageing: on the contrary, I have always had the strange sensation as time passes that I am getting not older but younger. My body feels as though it has innocence as its destination. This is not, of course, a physical reality – I view the proof in the mirror with increasing puzzlement – but it is perhaps a psychological one that conscripts the body into its workings. It is as though I was born imprisoned in a block of stone from which it has been both a necessity and an obligation to free myself. The feeling of incarceration in what was pre-existing and inflexible works well enough, I suppose, as a paradigm for the contemporary woman’s struggle towards personal liberty. She might feel it politically, socially, linguistically, emotionally; I happen to have felt it physically. I am not free yet, by any means. It is laborious and slow, chipping away at that block. There would be a temptation to give up, were the feelings of claustrophobia and confinement less intense.

it means, simply, that our manner of life is dishonest, that it offers too few opportunities for self-expression, and that, for some people, there is too great a disjuncture between how things seem and how they actually feel.

that

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It was agony,” he whispered. She looked up, startled. He took her hand and kissed her palm. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to tell Freddie Coventry to go ahead and dance with you? What it felt like to watch him take your hand and whisper in your ear like he had a right to be near you?

To one who waits, all things reveal themselves,” the nineteenth-century English poet Coventry Patmore reassures us, “so long as you have the courage not to deny in the darkness what you have seen in the light.

That's the thing about love. There is no right way. There's just our way, whatever that is. We'll figure it out together. From Worth the Risk

Like a lion stalking its prey, he crawled toward her on all fours, his intention clear. But, unlike a lion's prey, she had no interest in escaping. She simply laid back and happily awaited the attack. -The Perfect Distraction

Looks like it's just you and me again, she said. Then she opened the book and fell inside. -Worth the Risk

You may see the disc of Divinity quite clearly through the smoked glass of humanity, but no otherwise.

A lesson learned, and all that.” “But do you not think what happened was not the fault of love, but rather the fault of the lady?” Coventry persisted. “The problem is not that love does not exist, but that your love was misplaced.

What do you think she left in the safe?” Meri asked.

Brighton, look out.” Meri’s words were the last thing I heard before something heavy slammed into the back of my head and everything went black.

But, that’s what they say about Illinois. If you don’t like the weather, just wait ten minutes.

Still, I didn’t want Kinsley

She was tougher than she looked, stronger than she believed, and more important to him than she knew. -from The Sweetest Mistake, to be released in June, 2018

Coventry remains the focus of a persistent story about Churchill’s ruthless determination to protect the Ultra secret. The city was victim of a massive bombing raid on the night of 14 November 1940 when over 500 civilians were killed, the city centre flattened and the cathedral destroyed. Although Ultra had revealed the target, so this tale runs, Churchill refused to allow countermeasures for fear of revealing to the Germans that their ciphers had been broken. Coventry, in short, was deliberately sacrificed to preserve Ultra. This is a myth. Three days before the raid Ultra revealed Luftwaffe plans for a major operation code-named Moonlight Sonata, but gave no date or targets.

of sameness. This is as true of Zion as it is of marriage. The poet Coventry Patmore wrote that the bonds that unite us in community consist “not in similarity, but in dissimilarity; the happiness of love, in which alone happiness resid[es] . . . not in unison, but conjunction, which can only be between spiritual dissimilars.”30 This is why the body of Christ needs its full complement of members—the devout, the wayward, the uncomfortable, the struggling. “It does not mean that a man is not good because he errs in doctrine,” Joseph said of a Mormon rebuked by others for his preaching. “It feels so good not to be trammeled.”31 This is the spirit in which one Church leader recently noted that not only unique backgrounds but “unique talents and perspectives” and “diversity of persons and peoples” are “a strength of this Church.”32

Sometimes the brightest sunsets shine only after the longest rains.

I have often looked at photographs of writers in their elegant book-lined studies and marvelled at what seems to me a mirage of sorts, the near-perfect alignment of seeming with being, the convincing illusion of mental processes on public display, as though writing a book were not the work of someone capable of all the shame and deviousness and cold-heartedness in the world.

She tasted like wine and sunshine, and he soaked it all in.

But, with Lad beside her, Baby is in just about as much danger as she would be with a guard of forty U. S. Regulars,” went on the Master. “Take my word for it. Come along, Lady. It’s the kennel for you for the next few weeks, old girl. Lad, when I get back, I’ll wash that shoulder for you.” With a sigh, Lad went over to the hammock and lay down, heavily. For the first time since Baby’s advent at The Place, he was unhappy—very, very unhappy. He had had to jostle and fend off Lady, whom he worshiped. And he knew it would be many a long day before his sensitively temperamental mate would forgive or forget. Meantime, so far as Lady was concerned, he was in Coventry.

The Angel in the House" Man must be pleased; but him to please Is woman's pleasure; down the gulf Of his condoled necessities She casts her best, she flings herself. How often flings for nought, and yokes Her heart to an icicle or whim, Whose each impatient word provokes Another, not from her, but him; While she, too gentle even to force His penitence by kind replies, Waits by, expecting his remorse, With pardon in her pitying eyes; And if he once, by shame oppress'd, A comfortable word confers, She leans and weeps against his breast, And seems to think the sin was hers; Or any eye to see her charms, At any time, she's still his wife, Dearly devoted to his arms; She loves with love that cannot tire; And when, ah woe, she loves alone, Through passionate duty love springs higher, As grass grows taller round a stone.

It is all too easy to fall into the trap of wanting to bail your children out—and before you know it they are on a financial drip feed. This erodes self-esteem to such an extent that the adult child’s level of overall satisfaction in life is drastically reduced. We have come to believe that wealthy parents must redefine what it means to “help” their children, and understand that setting limits helps them in a more fundamental and longer-term way. Our interviewees revealed a fascinating truth: Wealthy children felt most successful when they had a career that paid a living wage, were living largely within their own means, and felt as if they would be able to support their basic needs if the family money were to disappear tomorrow. The implications of this are potentially earth shattering for a wealth industry intent on transferring wealth to the next generation, because our interviewees were actually happiest—most “successful”—when they were using very little of the wealth they inherited.

As recent research on brain function shows, working toward a goal and making progress toward its realization does more than simply activate positive feelings; it also diminishes negative emotions such as fear and depression. In many ways, it’s the genuine and sustained effort that counts more than the outcome.

everything is possible, sometimes nothing seems appealing.

What needed to change was changed, just as old things were destroyed – not by time but by force of human will.

Pam was scheduled to be an exchange student in Coventry, England, for the fall semester.

Nations die of softening of the brain, which, for a long time, passes for softening of the heart.