“
We know, for instance, that there is a direct, inverse relationship between frequency of family meals and social problems. Bluntly stated, members of families who eat together regularly are statistically less likely to stick up liquor stores, blow up meth labs, give birth to crack babies, commit suicide, or make donkey porn. If Little Timmy had just had more meatloaf, he might not have grown up to fill chest freezers with Cub Scout parts.
”
”
Anthony Bourdain (Medium Raw: A Bloody Valentine to the World of Food and the People Who Cook)
“
There are two kinds of people,’ she’d said. ‘Those who coast through life like ducks in a row, following one after the other, and those who ride the waves.’” Tears spilled down my cheeks, and my voice cracked. “‘Ride the waves, baby, and live. Live.
”
”
Gena Showalter (Oh My Goth)
“
but then again, they
were like baby Einsteins on crack.
”
”
Jennifer L. Armentrout (Origin (Lux, #4))
“
Are you done acting like a psychotic, cracked-out Muppet baby?" he asked, and I could tell by the way his fingers spasmed around my wrists, he really wanted to shake me.
"Or do you need a couple more moments to return to sanity? I have all day. And you actually feel kind of good under me, so take your time.
”
”
Jennifer L. Armentrout (Obsession)
“
People love babies, even sick babies. Even crack babies. But babies grow up to be kids. Nobody really wants messed up kids. And Moses was messed up.
”
”
Amy Harmon (The Law of Moses (The Law of Moses, #1))
“
Science, the largest religion of the twentieth century, had become tarnished by images of exploding space shuttles, crack babies, and a generation of complacent Americans who allowed the television to raise their children. People were looking for something - I think they just didn't know what. And even though they were once again starting to open their eyes to the world of magic and the arcane that had been with them all the while, they still thought I must be some kind of joke.
”
”
Jim Butcher (Storm Front (The Dresden Files, #1))
“
Right. Lack of opportunities," Daddy says. "Corporate America don't bring jobs to our communities, and they damn sure ain't quick to hire us. Then, shit, even if you do have a high school diploma, so many of the schools in our neighborhoods don't prepare us well enough. That's why when your momma talked about sending you and your brothers to Williamson, I agreed. Our schools don't get the resources to equip you like Williamson does. It's easier to find some crack that it is the find a good school around here.
"Now, think 'bout this," he says. "How did the drugs even get in our neighborhood? This is a multibillion-dollar industry we talking 'bout, baby. That shit is flown into our communities, but I don't know anybody with a private jet. Do you?"
"No."
"Exactly. Drugs come from somewhere, and they're destroying our community," he says. "You got folks like Brenda, who think they need them survive, and then you got the Khalils, who think they need to sell them to survive. The Brendas can't get jobs unless they're clean, and they can't pay for rehab unless they got jobs. When the Khalils get arrested for selling drugs, they either spend most of their life in prison, another billion-dollar industry, or they have a hard time getting a real job and probably start selling drugs again. That's the hate they're giving us, baby, a system designed against us. That's Thug Life.
”
”
Angie Thomas (The Hate U Give (The Hate U Give, #1))
“
The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness. Although the two are identical twins, man, as a rule, views the prenatal abyss with more calm than the one he is heading for (at some forty-five hundred heartbeats an hour). I know, however, of a young chronophobiac who experienced something like panic when looking for the first time at homemade movies that had been taken a few weeks before his birth. He saw a world that was practically unchanged-the same house, the same people- and then realized that he did not exist there at all and that nobody mourned his absence. He caught a glimpse of his mother waving from an upstairs window, and that unfamiliar gesture disturbed him, as if it were some mysterious farewell. But what particularly frightened him was the sight of a brand-new baby carriage standing there on the porch, with the smug, encroaching air of a coffin; even that was empty, as if, in the reverse course of events, his very bones had disintegrated.
”
”
Vladimir Nabokov (Speak, Memory)
“
Leave the dishes.
Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator
and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.
Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.
Throw the cracked bowl out and don't patch the cup.
Don't patch anything. Don't mend. Buy safety pins.
Don't even sew on a button.
Let the wind have its way, then the earth
that invades as dust and then the dead
foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch.
Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.
Don't keep all the pieces of the puzzles
or the doll's tiny shoes in pairs, don't worry
who uses whose toothbrush or if anything
matches, at all.
Except one word to another. Or a thought.
Pursue the authentic-decide first
what is authentic,
then go after it with all your heart.
Your heart, that place
you don't even think of cleaning out.
That closet stuffed with savage mementos.
Don't sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth
or worry if we're all eating cereal for dinner
again. Don't answer the telephone, ever,
or weep over anything at all that breaks.
Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons
in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life
and talk to the dead
who drift in though the screened windows, who collect
patiently on the tops of food jars and books.
Recycle the mail, don't read it, don't read anything
except what destroys
the insulation between yourself and your experience
or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters
this ruse you call necessity.
”
”
Louise Erdrich (Original Fire)
“
people used to tell me that i had beautiful hands
told me so often, in fact, that one day i started to believe them until i asked my photographer father, “hey daddy could i be a hand model”
to which he said no way,
i dont remember the reason he gave me and i wouldve been upset,
but there were far too many stuffed animals to hold
too many homework assignment to write,
too many boys to wave at
too many years to grow,
we used to have a game, my dad and i about holding hands cus we held hands everywhere, and every time either he or i would whisper a great
big number to the other, pretending that we were keeping track of how many times we had held hands that we were sure, this one had to be 8 million 2 thousand 7 hundred and fifty three.
hands learn more than minds do,
hands learn how to hold other hands,
how to grip pencils and mold poetry,
how to tickle pianos and dribble a basketball,
and grip the handles of a bicycle
how to hold old people, and touch babies ,
i love hands like i love people,
they're the maps and compasses in which we navigate our way through life, some people read palms to tell your future,
but i read hands to tell your past,
each scar marks the story worth telling,
each calloused palm,
each cracked knuckle is a missed punch
or years in a factory,
now ive seen middle eastern hands clenched in middle eastern fists pounding against each other like war drums, each country sees theyre fists as warriors and others as enemies.
even if fists alone are only hands. but this is not about politics, no hands arent about politics, this is a poem about love, and fingers. fingers interlock like a beautiful zipper of prayer.
one time i grabbed my dads hands so that our fingers interlocked perfectly but he changed positions, saying no that hand hold is for your mom.
kids high five, but grown ups, we learn how to shake hands, you need a firm hand shake,but dont hold on too tight, but dont let go too soon, but dont hold down for too long,
but hands are not about politics, when did it become so complicated. i always thought its simple.
the other day my dad looked at my hands, as if seeing them for the first time, and with laughter behind his eye lids, with all the seriousness a man of his humor could muster, he said you know you got nice hands, you could’ve been a hand model, and before the laughter can escape me, i shake my head at him, and squeeze his hand, 8 million 2 thousand 7hundred and fifty four.
”
”
Sarah Kay
“
Nine floors underground. Ugh.
It seemed like a long way to travel for the little origins to get out, but then again, they were like baby Einsteins on crack.
”
”
Jennifer L. Armentrout (Origin (Lux, #4))
“
Science, the largest religion of the twentieth century, had become somewhat tarnished by images of exploding space shuttles, crack babies, and a generation of complacent Americans who had allowed the television to raise their children.
”
”
Jim Butcher (Storm Front (The Dresden Files, #1))
“
I was flesh thirst desire dust blood lips cracking feet blistered knees skinned hips bruised, but I was so happy not to be napping on a sofa under a blanket with an older man by my side and a baby on my lap.
”
”
Deborah Levy (Hot Milk)
“
Get over it. It’s all in your head. I get so fucking tired of that line. Of course it’s in my goddamned head. If I knew how to get it out, I’d have already found a way to crack open my skull and scoop the shit out. Smear it all over the fucking walls and light it on fire. Watch it burn to the shitty-ass ground I have to walk on every single day.
”
”
K. Webster (This is War, Baby (War & Peace, #1))
“
Warner has collapsed in the corner.
He's curled into himself, kness pulled up to his chest. arms wrapped around his legs, his head buried in this arms. And he's shaking.
Tremors are rocking his entire body.
I've never, ever seen him look like a child before. Never, not once, not in all the time I've known him. But right now, he looks just like a little boy. Scared, Vulnerable. All alone.
...
I touch his arms, so gently. I run my hand down his back, his shoulders. And then I dare to wrap myself around him until he slowly breaks apart, unfolding in front of me.
He lifts his head.
His eyes are red-rimmed and a startling, striking shade of green, shining with barely restrained emotion. His face is the picture of so much pain.
I almost can't breathe.
An earthquake hits my heart then, cracks it right down the middle. And It hink here, in him, there is more feeling then any one person should ever have to contain.
I try to hold him closer but he wraps his arms around my hips instead, his head falling into my lap. I bend over him instinctively, shielding his body with my own.
I press my cheek to his forehead. Press a kiss to his temple.
And then he breaks.
Shaking violently, shattering in my arms, a million gasping, choking pieces I'm trying so hard to hold together. And I promise myself then, in that moment that I will hold him forever, just like this, until all the pain and torture and suffering is gone, until he's given a chance to live the kind of life where no one can wound him this deeply ever again.
”
”
Tahereh Mafi
“
That was the big joke, wasn't it? The answer to the riddle: There was no one up there in Heaven, making sure the accounts came out right. I'd solved it, hadn't I? Cracked the code? It was all just a joke. The god inside my brother's head was just his disease. My mother had knelt every night and prayed to her own steepled hands. Your baby died because of ... because of no particular reason at all. Your wife left you because you sucked all the oxygen out of the room, so you pretended she was the one in bed with you while you screwed your girlfriend and her boyfriend hid in the closet, watching.
”
”
Wally Lamb (I Know This Much Is True)
“
[Or perhaps my friends should have realized that they shouldn't have left behind the FRICKING REASON FOR THEIR PROTEST!
And that thought just cracked me up.]
It was like my friends had walked over the backs of baby seals in order to get to the beach where they could protest against the slaughter of baby seals.
”
”
Sherman Alexie (The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian)
“
Sorrow comes with so many defense mechanisms. You have your shock, your
denial, your getting wasted, your cracking jokes, and your religion. You also
have the old standby catchall—the blind belief in fate, the whole "things
happening for a reason" drill.
”
”
Emily Giffin (Baby Proof)
“
What about a teakettle? What if the spout opened and closed when the steam came out, so it would become a mouth, and it could whistle pretty melodies, or do Shakespeare, or just
crack up with me? I could invent a teakettle that reads in Dad’s voice, so I could fall asleep, or maybe a set of kettles that sings the chorus of “Yellow Submarine,” which is a song by the Beatles, who I love, because entomology is one of my raisons d’être, which
is a French expression that I know. Another good thing is that I could train my anus to talk when I farted. If I wanted to be extremely hilarious, I’d train it to say, “Wasn’t me!” every time I made an incredibly bad fart. And if I ever made an incredibly bad fart in the Hall of Mirrors, which is in Versailles, which is outside of Paris, which is in France, obviously, my anus would say, “Ce n’étais pas moi!”
What about little microphones? What if everyone swallowed them, and they played the sounds of our hearts through little speakers, which could be in the pouches of our overalls? When you skateboard down the street at night you could hear everyone's heartbeat, and they could hear yours, sort of like sonar. One weird thing is, I wonder if everyone's hearts would start to beat at the same time, like how women who live together have their menstrual periods at the same time, which I know about, but don't really want to know about. That would be so weird, except that the place in the hospital where babies are born would sound like a crystal chandelier in a houseboat, because the babies wouldn't have had time to match up their heartbeats yet. And at the finish line at the end of the New York City Marathon it would sound like war.
”
”
Jonathan Safran Foer
“
Advice to friends. Advice to fellow mothers in the same boat. "How do you do it all?" Crack a joke. Make it seem easy. Make everything seem easy. Make life seem easy and parenthood and marriage and freelancing for pennies, writing a novel and smiling after a rejection, keeping the faith after two, reminding oneself that four years of work counted for a lot, counted for everything. Make the bed. Make it nice. Make the people laugh when you sit down to write and if you can't make them laugh make them cry. Make them want to hug you or hold you or punch you in the face. Make them want to kill you or fuck you or be your friend. Make them change. Make them happy. Make the baby smile. Make him laugh. Make him dinner. Make him proud.
Hold the phone, someone is on the other line. She says its important. People are dying. Children. Friends. Press mute because there is nothing you can say. Press off because you're running out of minutes. Running out of time. Soon he'll be grown up and you'll regret the time you spent pushing him away for one more paragraph in the manuscript no one will ever read. Put down the book, the computer, the ideas. Remember who you are now. Wait. Remember who you were. Wait. Remember what's important. Make a list. Ten things, no twenty. Twenty thousand things you want to do before you die but what if tomorrow never comes? No one will remember. No one will know. No one will laugh or cry or make the bed. No one will have a clue which songs to sing to the baby. No one will be there for the children. No one will finish the first draft of the novel. No one will publish the one that's been finished for months. No one will remember the thought you had last night, that great idea you forgot to write down.
”
”
Rebecca Woolf
“
Are you done acting like a psychotic, cracked-out Muppet baby?” he asked (Hunter)
”
”
Jennifer L. Armentrout (Obsession)
“
However baby man may brag of his science and skill, and however much, in a flattering future, that science and skill may augment; yet for ever and for ever, to the crack of doom, the sea will insult and murder him, and pulverize the stateliest, stiffest frigate he can make; nevertheless, by the continual repetition of these very impressions, man has lost that sense of the full awfulness of the sea which aboriginally belongs to it.
”
”
Herman Melville (Moby-Dick or, The Whale)
“
You are beautiful and magical and perfect, especially because of your flaws. Those cracks are what let the light in, baby.
”
”
Dawn Gluskin
“
My inspiration for writing music is like Don McLean did when he did "American Pie" or "Vincent". Lorraine Hansberry with "A Raisin in the Sun". Like Shakespeare when he does his thing, like deep stories, raw human needs.
I'm trying to think of a good analogy. It's like, you've got the Vietnam War, and because you had reporters showing us pictures of the war at home, that's what made the war end, or that shit would have lasted longer. If no one knew what was going on we would have thought they were just dying valiantly in some beautiful way. But because we saw the horror, that's what made us stop the war.
So I thought, that's what I'm going to do as an artist, as a rapper. I'm gonna show the most graphic details of what I see in my community and hopefully they'll stop it quick.
I've seen all of that-- the crack babies, what we had to go through, losing everything, being poor, and getting beat down. All of that. Being the person I am, I said no no no no. I'm changing this.
”
”
Tupac Shakur (Tupac: Resurrection 1971-1996)
“
You my baby.” She breathes heavy, and the grate cracks and sinks to rusted stillness. “Like I drew the veil back so you could walk in this life, you’ll help me draw it back so I can walk in the next.
”
”
Jesmyn Ward (Sing, Unburied, Sing)
“
Lexie's baby. Four weeks . . .not quite a quarter of an inch: a tiny gemstone, a single spark of color slipping between your fingers and through the cracks and gone. A heart the size of a fleck of glitter and vibrating like a hummingbird, seeded with a billion things that would never happen now.
”
”
Tana French (The Likeness (Dublin Murder Squad, #2))
“
Dane picked up on the second ring. "How's Operation Baby Rescue going?"
"I've rescued the baby. Now I'd like someone to rescue me."
"Miss Independent never needs to be rescued."
I felt the hint of a genuine smile appear on my face, like a crack in the winter ice. "Oh, right. I forgot.
”
”
Lisa Kleypas (Smooth Talking Stranger (Travises, #3))
“
I want to know now,” I whine, not caring that I sound like a five-year-old throwing a tantrum.
“How about this? We’ll Rock, Paper, Scissors for it.”
Yeah, we’re going to make great parents, all right.
“Fine.” I crack my knuckles, which makes him snicker. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
We count in unison. On three, we reveal our hands. He did paper. I did rock.
“I win,” he says smugly.
“Sorry, baby, but you lose.”
“Paper covers rock!”
I smirk. “Rock weighs down the paper so it can’t fly away. It traps it.”
A loud sigh fills the room. “I’m not going to win on this, am I?”
“Nope.” But he looks so cute right now that I offer a compromise. “How about this? You can leave the room while the doctor tells me, and I swear I won’t give it away. I’ll hide all my baby purchases in my closet so you can’t see what I’m buying.”
“Deal
”
”
Elle Kennedy (The Goal (Off-Campus, #4))
“
Shit, Ty, you can’t take my damn arm off! Please… baby,” Zane’s voice cracked with agony as he pleaded between uneven gasping breaths. “Get out of the car,” he ordered weakly.
”
”
Madeleine Urban (Cut & Run (Cut & Run, #1))
“
People love babies, even sick babies. Even crack babies. But babies grow up to be kids. Nobody really wants messed up kids.
”
”
Amy Harmon (The Law of Moses (The Law of Moses, #1))
“
Because the media always serve up heroes and villians, there had to be the terrible mothers, the anti-Madonnas, the hideous counterexamples good mothers were meant to revile. We regret to report that nearly all of these women were African American and were disproportionately featured as failed mothers in news stories about "crack babies," single, teen mothers, and welfare mothers.
”
”
Susan J. Douglas (The Mommy Myth: The Idealization of Motherhood and How It Has Undermined All Women)
“
Jack has been cracking the whip. Er . . . I mean . . .” I flush and fall silent.
Christian says nothing for a moment.
“Cracking the whip, eh? Well, there was a time when I would have called him a lucky man.” His voice is full of dry humor. “Don’t let him get on top of you, baby.”
“Christian!
”
”
E.L. James
“
yeah, sure, the sun will age my skin, and all these giggles and smiles with you will, over time, will crack up my face and give me wrinkles...sunshine, giggles, smiles, you? that's happiness, baby i'm living!
”
”
D. Bodhi Smith (Bodhi Simplique Impressionist Photography and Insights (#5))
“
You risked your life for me." He took my shoulders into his hands. "When are you going to learn, Dutch: No one matters but you and the baby. You keep risking your life--" He threw one hand out to indicate our surroundings. "--on things that are not the least bit important." He stepped even closer. "On people who committed suicide and crazy chicks in cemeteries and--" He stopped and dropped a heated gaze on me. His voice cracked when he said in a hushed tone, "I can't lose you."
"And I can lose you?" I asked, almost screaming at him.
He lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. Then he admitted what was probably his greatest fear. "I don't know how to win. I don't have the faintest idea of how to kill the Twelve. And when I saw your name on that wall." His breath hitched in his chest. Then he focused his coffee-colored gaze on me. "If you die," he said with a savage vehemence in his voice, "I will go straight to hell and kill every demon there. Or I'll perish in the attempt.
”
”
Darynda Jones (Seventh Grave and No Body (Charley Davidson, #7))
“
You gotta put in a little more work to crack this egg, baby.
”
”
Casey McQuiston (One Last Stop)
“
The trouble with babies is that they are made like a safe- no way to see what's inside and no guarantee that the effort will be worth the trouble. spin the numbers, crack the code, but the door won't swing open. Babies are safes on time-delay. It takes years for the door to swing open, and even when it does, the best minds are undecided as to the value of the contents
”
”
Jeanette Winterson (The Stone Gods)
“
Sometimes life events break your heart. Even as you grieve, allow light to seep through the cracks, uplift, and illuminate a healing. Baby turtles emerge from the cracking of shells; new life can burst forth. Clear away all broken belongings as a metaphorical pathway fresh, loving experiences in uncharted waters.
”
”
Laura Staley
“
Something terrible is happening to me, Mom,” he said, his voice cracking. For the first time all morning, he felt close to tears. “Oh, baby,” she said again. “Why couldn’t you have gone somewhere else?” “Excuse me?” “I don’t want to hear about any more of your problems.
”
”
Joe Hill (Horns)
“
Today Means Amen
Dear you, whoever you are, however you got here,
this is exactly where you are supposed to be.
This moment has waited its whole life for you.
This moment is your lover and you are a soldier.
Come home, baby, it's over. You don't need
to suffer anymore. Dear you, this moment
is your surprise party. You are both hiding
in the dark and walking through the door.
This moment is a hallelujah. This moment
is your permission slip to finally open that love
letter you've been hiding from yourself,
the one you wrote when you were little
when you still danced like a sparkler at dusk.
Do you remember the moment you realized
they were watching? When you became
ashamed of how much light you were holding?
When you first learned how to unlove yourself?
Dear you, the word today means amen
in every language. Today, we made it. Today,
I'm going to love you. Today, I'm going
to love myself. Today, the boxcutter will rust
in the garbage. The noose will forget
how to hold you, today, today--
Dear you, and I have always meant you,
nothing would be the same if you
did not exist. You, whose voice is someone's
favorite voice, someone's favorite face
to wake up to. Nothing would be the same
if you did not exist. You, the teacher,
the starter's gun, the lantern in the night
who offers not a way home, but the courage
to travel farther into the dark. You, the lover,
who worships the taste of her body, who is
the largest tree ring in his heart, who does not
let fear ration your love. You, the friend,
the sacred chorus of how can I help.
You, who have felt more numb than holy,
more cracked than mosaic. Who have known
the tiles of a bathroom by heart, who have
forgotten what makes you worth it.
You, the forgiven, the forgiver, who belongs
right here in this moment. You, this clump
of cells, this happy explosion that happened
to start breathing, and by the grace of whatever
is up there, you got here. You made it
this whole way: through the nights
that swallowed you whole, the mornings
that arrived in pieces. The scabs, the gravel,
the doubt, the hurt, the hurt, the hurt
is over. Today, you made it. You made it.
You made it here.
”
”
Sierra DeMulder (Today Means Amen)
“
Julian made a noise. It was a noise Emma couldn't have described, not as human a sound as a how or a scream. It sounded like it was ripped out of the inside of him, like something brutal was tearing through his chest. He dropped the longsword Livvy had risked so much to bring him, fell to his knees and crawled to her, pulling her into his lap.
'Livvy, Livvy, my Livvy' he whispered, cradling her, feverishly stroking her blood-wet hair away from her face. There was so much blood. He was covered in it in seconds; it had soaked through Livvy's clothes, even her shoes were drenched in it. 'Livia' His hands shook; he fumbled out his stele and put it on her arm.
Emma felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. There were wounds that were beyond and iratze's power. Healing runes only vanished from skin when an occupational poison was involved--or when the person was already dead.
'Livia,' Julian's voice rose, cracking and tumbling over itself like a wave breaking too far out to sea. 'Livvy, my baby, please, sweet- heart, open your eyes it's Jules, I'm here for you, I'm always here for you, please,please--'
Blackness exploded behind Emma's eyes. The pain in her arm was gone; she felt nothing but rage. Rage that bleached everything else out of the world except the sight of Annabel cringing against the lectern, staring at Julian cradling his sister's dead body. At what she'd done.
”
”
Cassandra Clare (Lord of Shadows (The Dark Artifices, #2))
“
Jocelyn, you’re not broken, baby,” he whispered hoarsely, his eyes pleading with me. “You’ve got a few cracks in you, but we all have some.
”
”
Samantha Young (On Dublin Street (On Dublin Street, #1))
“
You know this business, Cole. Your production budget is climbing faster than Lindsay Lohan’s chance of a crack baby pregnancy.
”
”
Alessandra Torre (Hollywood Dirt (Hollywood Dirt, #1))
“
however baby man may brag of his science and skill, and however much, in a flattering future, that science and skill may augment; yet for ever and for ever, to the crack of doom, the sea will insult and murder him, and pulverize the stateliest, stiffest frigate he can make;
”
”
Herman Melville (Moby Dick: or, the White Whale)
“
There is a beautiful moment in the bible when the prophet Elijah feels God’s resence. The Scriptures say that a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart, but God was not in the wind. After the wind, there was an earthquake, but God was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper. It was the whisper of God. Today we can hear the whisper where we least expect it; in a baby refugee and in a homeless rabbi, in crack addicts and displaced children, in a groaning creation.
”
”
Shane Claiborne (The Irresistible Revolution: Living as an Ordinary Radical)
“
Listen, lady," he said in a high voice, "if I had of been there I would of known and I wouldn't be like I am now." His voice seemed about to crack and the grandmother's head cleared for an instant. She saw the man's face twisted close to her own as if he were going to cry and she murmured, "Why you're one of my babies. You're one of my own children!" She reached out and touched him on the shoulder. The Misfit sprang back as if a snake had bitten him and shot her three times through the chest.
”
”
Flannery O'Connor (A Good Man Is Hard to Find and Other Stories)
“
I remember that day very clearly: I had received a phone call. A friend had been in an accident. Perhaps she would not live. She had very little face, and her spine was broken in two places. She had not yet moved; the doctor described her as “a pebble in water.” I walked around Brooklyn and noticed that the faded peri-winkle of the abandoned Mobil gas station on the corner was suddenly blooming. In the baby-shit yellow showers at my gym, where snow sometimes fluttered in through the cracked gated windows, I noticed that the yellow paint was peeling in spots, and a decent, industrial blue was trying to creep in. At the bottom of the swimming pool, I watched the white winter light spangle the cloudy blue and I knew together they made God. When I walked into my friend’s hospital room, her eyes were a piercing, pale blue and the only part of her body that could move. I was scared. So was she. The blue was beating.
”
”
Maggie Nelson (Bluets)
“
Reading Aloud to My Father
I chose the book haphazard
from the shelf, but with Nabokov's first
sentence I knew it wasn't the thing
to read to a dying man:
The cradle rocks above an abyss, it began,
and common sense tells us that our existence
is but a brief crack of light
between two eternities of darkness.
The words disturbed both of us immediately,
and I stopped. With music it was the same --
Chopin's Piano Concerto — he asked me
to turn it off. He ceased eating, and drank
little, while the tumors briskly appropriated
what was left of him.
But to return to the cradle rocking. I think
Nabokov had it wrong. This is the abyss.
That's why babies howl at birth,
and why the dying so often reach
for something only they can apprehend.
At the end they don't want their hands
to be under the covers, and if you should put
your hand on theirs in a tentative gesture
of solidarity, they'll pull the hand free;
and you must honor that desire,
and let them pull it free.
”
”
Jane Kenyon (Otherwise: New and Selected Poems)
“
In that instant, your billboard careened ashore on a wall of water, cracking the back of my head. I reached for balance and touched what I thought was a puppy. Then you grabbed my finger. My God, I thought. It's a baby. I fainted dead away. That's how Macon found us the next day — me unconscious on half a billboard, you nestled in my arms, nursing on the pocket of my uniform. The half billboard said: "...Cafe...Proprietor." Our path seemed clear.
I will always love your mother for letting you go, Soldier, and I will always love you for holding on.
Love, the Colonel.
PS: I apologize for naming you Moses. I didn't know you were a girl until it was too late.
”
”
Sheila Turnage (Three Times Lucky (Mo & Dale Mysteries, #1))
“
Even though everything in the past twenty-four hours had been leading to this, even though it was a fear Isabel had harboured from the day she had first laid eyes on Lucy as a baby, still, the moment ripped through her.
'Please!’ she pleaded through tears.
‘Have some pity!’
Her voice reverberated around the bare walls.
‘Don’t take my baby away!’
As the girl was wrenched from her screaming, Isabel fainted onto the stone floor with a resounding crack.
”
”
M.L. Stedman
“
When ACOG (American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists) claims that home birth and midwives are unsafe, they imply that the women who choose it and the midwives that provide it are acting irresponsibly and selfishly. They stigmatize normal birth just as the political right has stigmatized abortion. And they stigmatize women.
"Our country has created a mythology of women who are irresponsible and don't care," says Paltrow. "We talk about welfare queens, crack moms, and murderous women who have abortions." A culture that allows such language to permeate our national subconscious inevitably dehumanizes all women, including mothers. Lyon argues that this thinking perpetuates a phrase often invoked in exam rooms and delivery rooms: The goal is to have a healthy baby. "This phrase is used over and over and over to shut down women's requests," she says. "The context needs to be that the goal is a healthy mom. Because mothers never make decisions without thinking about that healthy baby. And to suggest otherwise is insulting and degrading and disrespectful."
What's best for women is best for babies.
...
The goal is to have a healthy family.
”
”
Jennifer Block (Pushed: The Painful Truth About Childbirth and Modern Maternity Care)
“
There were men in their fifties, men who take a stab at fitness, men who try. They may not look young, but they still look viable. Lammers wasn't one of those. Lammers was one of those crack-in-the-ass guys ten months pregnant with a beer baby.
”
”
Lily Gardner (A Bitch Called Hope (Lennox Cooper, #1))
“
She may hear this story, someday, and wonder what it has to do with her. A girl hiding her scared in her prettiness, an unwanted baby, a dead mother. These are not her heartbreaks. Every heart is fractured differently and she knows the pattern of her cracks, she traces them like lines across her palm. She has a living mother and besides, she was always wanted. Prayed for, even. Now she's grown, or at least she thinks she is. But she hasn't yet learned from the mathematics of grief. The weight of what has been lost is always heavier than what remains. She's heard her granddaddy preach about the good shepherd who leaves the ninety-nine behind in search of the one lost sheep.
But what about the flock he abandons? she wonders. Aren't they lost now too?
”
”
Brit Bennett (The Mothers)
“
Baby man may brag of his science and skill, and however much, in a flattering future, that science and skill may augment; yet for ever and for ever, to the crack of doom, the sea will insult and murder him, and pulverise the stateliest, stiffest frigate he can make.
”
”
Herman Melville (Moby-Dick or, The Whale)
“
The hills below crouched on all fours under the weight of the rainforest where liana grew and soldier ants marched in formation. Straight ahead they marched, shamelessly single-minded, for soldier ants have no time for dreaming. Almost all of them are women and there is so much to do - the work is literally endless. So many to be born and fed, then found and buried. There is no time for dreaming. The life of their world requires organization so tight and sacrifice so complete there is little need for males and they are seldom produced. When they are needed, it is deliberately done by the queen who surmises, by some four-million-year-old magic she is heiress to, that it is time. So she urges a sperm from the private womb where they were placed when she had her one, first and last copulation. Once in life, this little Amazon trembled in the air waiting for a male to mount her. And when he did, when he joined a cloud of others one evening just before a summer storm, joined colonies from all over the world gathered fro the marriage flight, he knew at last what his wings were for. Frenzied, he flied into the humming cloud to fight gravity and time in order to do, just once, the single thing he was born for. Then he drops dead, having emptied his sperm into his lady-love. Sperm which she keeps in a special place to use at her own discretion when there is need for another dark and singing cloud of ant folk mating in the air. Once the lady has collected the sperm, she too falls to the ground, but unless she breaks her back or neck or is eaten by one of a thousand things, she staggers to her legs and looks for a stone to rub on, cracking and shedding the wings she will never need again. Then she begins her journey searching for a suitable place to build her kingdom. She crawls into the hollow of a tree, examines its walls and corners. She seals herself off from all society and eats her own wing muscles until she bears her eggs. When the first larvae appear, there is nothing to feed them, so she gives them their unhatched sisters until they are old enough and strong enough to hunt and bring their prey back to the kingdom. That is all. Bearing, hunting, eating, fighting, burying. No time for dreaming, although sometimes, late in life, somewhere between the thirtieth and fortieth generation she might get wind of a summer storm one day. The scent of it will invade her palace and she will recall the rush of wind on her belly - the stretch of fresh wings, the blinding anticipation and herself, there, airborne, suspended, open, trusting, frightened, determined, vulnerable - girlish, even, for and entire second and then another and another. She may lift her head then, and point her wands toward the place where the summer storm is entering her palace and in the weariness that ruling queens alone know, she may wonder whether his death was sudden. Or did he languish? And if so, if there was a bit of time left, did he think how mean the world was, or did he fill that space of time thinking of her? But soldier ants do not have time for dreaming. They are women and have much to do. Still it would be hard. So very hard to forget the man who fucked like a star.
”
”
Toni Morrison (Tar baby)
“
Spring is sweet, the baby season; summer is the teenage season -- too much energy, too much growth and beauty and heat and late nights, none of them what they are cracked up to be. Fall is the older season, a more seasoned season. The weather surrounds you instead of beating down on you.
”
”
Anne Lamott (Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith)
“
I love it; I love how we are all the same, eating, pooping, fucking, and sleeping; yet the way we feel and act is profoundly different from place to place. I’m driven to try and understand the hidden differences in what motivates us, to crack the code. I’m amazed when I experience humans living in different rhythms. They have not yet violated my trust, and I yearn to connect. It seems like anything is possible in a new place. So much potential, like a newborn baby.
”
”
Flea (Acid for the Children: A Memoir)
“
A’ight, so what do you think it means?”
“You don’t know?” I ask.
“I know. I wanna hear what YOU think.”
Here he goes. Picking my brain. “Khalil said it’s about what society feeds us as youth and how it comes back and bites them later,” I say. “I think it’s about more than youth though. I think it’s about us, period.”
“Us who?” he asks.
“Black people, minorities, poor people. Everybody at the bottom in society.”
“The oppressed,” says Daddy.
“Yeah. We’re the ones who get the short end of the stick, but we’re the ones they fear the most. That’s why the government targeted the Black Panthers, right? Because they were scared of the Panthers?”
“Uh-huh,” Daddy says. “The Panthers educated and empowered the people. That tactic of empowering the oppressed goes even further back than the Panthers though. Name one.”
Is he serious? He always makes me think. This one takes me a second. “The slave rebellion of 1831,” I say. “Nat Turner empowered and educated other slaves, and it led to one of the biggest slave revolts in history.”
“A’ight, a’ight. You on it.” He gives me dap. “So, what’s the hate they’re giving the ‘little infants’ in today’s society?”
“Racism?”
“You gotta get a li’l more detailed than that. Think ’bout Khalil and his whole situation. Before he died.”
“He was a drug dealer.” It hurts to say that. “And possibly a gang member.”
“Why was he a drug dealer? Why are so many people in our neighborhood drug dealers?”
I remember what Khalil said—he got tired of choosing between lights and food. “They need money,” I say. “And they don’t have a lot of other ways to get it.”
“Right. Lack of opportunities,” Daddy says. “Corporate America don’t bring jobs to our communities, and they damn sure ain’t quick to hire us. Then, shit, even if you do have a high school diploma, so many of the schools in our neighborhoods don’t prepare us well enough. That’s why when your momma talked about sending you and your brothers to Williamson, I agreed. Our schools don’t get the resources to equip you like Williamson does. It’s easier to find some crack than it is to find a good school around here.
“Now, think ’bout this,” he says. “How did the drugs even get in our neighborhood? This is a multibillion-dollar industry we talking ’bout, baby. That shit is flown into our communities, but I don’t know anybody with a private jet. Do you?”
“No.”
“Exactly. Drugs come from somewhere, and they’re destroying our community,” he says. “You got folks like Brenda, who think they need them to survive, and then you got the Khalils, who think they need to sell them to survive. The Brendas can’t get jobs unless they’re clean, and they can’t pay for rehab unless they got jobs. When the Khalils get arrested for selling drugs, they either spend most of their life in prison, another billion-dollar industry, or they have a hard time getting a real job and probably start selling drugs again. That’s the hate they’re giving us, baby, a system designed against us. That’s Thug Life.
”
”
Angie Thomas (The Hate U Give (The Hate U Give, #1))
“
When you shattered her, oh how you allowed all kinds of free-flowing magical rainbow light to enter. You
allowed a cleansing. A purification. Who would’ve known breaking could be so damn beautiful! I say, break baby. Let the shattered pieces split you wide open and let light enter through all cracks and crevices.
”
”
Melody Lee (Moon Gypsy)
“
In the late '80s and early '90s, the media used a few small studies of babies born of cocaine-addicted mothers to convince America that thousands of children were permanently damaged...
It isn't true. It turns out there is no proof that crack babies do worse than anyone else. In fact, they do better, on average, than children born of alcoholic mothers...
It wasn't until several years later that the myth started to unravel. Emory University psychologist Claire Coles had her graduate students spend hours observing 'crack babies' and normal babies. Her students did not see what Chasnoff had seen. In fact, they were unable to tell which children had been exposed to cocaine.
”
”
John Stossel (Give Me a Break: How I Exposed Hucksters, Cheats, and Scam Artists and Became the Scourge of the Liberal Media...)
“
Tank, what's with the name, Button?"
"You're always pushing my buttons."
"Do I push your buttons?"
"Baby, you could push the buttons on a dead man and bring him back to life. You push my buttons and stir my dick to life, but reality is, you couldn't handle what I would give you. So, give it your best shot, Button. I won't crack under the pressure.
”
”
Chelsea Camaron (Forever Ride (Hellions Ride, #2))
“
Sign O' The Times
Oh yeah
In France a skinny man
Died of a big disease with a little name
By chance his girlfriend came across a needle
And soon she did the same
At home there are seventeen-year-old boys
And their idea of fun
Is being in a gang called The Disciples
High on crack, totin' a machine gun
Time, time
Hurricane Annie ripped the ceiling of a church
And killed everyone inside
U turn on the telly and every other story
Is tellin' U somebody died
Sister killed her baby cuz she could afford 2 feed it
And we're sending people 2 the moon
In September my cousin tried reefer 4 the very first time
Now he's doing horse, it's June
Times, times
It's silly, no?
When a rocket ship explodes
And everybody still wants 2 fly
Some say a man ain't happy
Unless a man truly dies
Oh why
Time, time
Baby make a speech, Star Wars fly
Neighbors just shine it on
But if a night falls and a bomb falls
Will anybody see the dawn
Time, times
It's silly, no?
When a rocket blows
And everybody still wants 2 fly
Some say a man ain't happy, truly
Until a man truly dies
Oh why, oh why, Sign O the Times
Time, time
Sign O the Times mess with your mind
Hurry before it's 2 late
Let's fall in love, get married, have a baby
We'll call him Nate... if it's a boy
Time, time
Time, time
”
”
Prince
“
The back of my neck breaks out in a sweat, and I’m getting nervous. Why is he just standing there, staring at me? “What do you want?” I press, my tone curt.
He opens his mouth but then closes it swallowing.
“Pike, Jesus—”
“The day you left,” he blurts out, and I stop.
I wait, listening as a look of fear crosses his eyes.
“The house was so empty,” he continues. “Like a quiet that was never there before. I couldn’t hear your footsteps upstairs or your hairdryer or anticipate you walking into a room. You were gone. Everything was…” he drops his eyes, “gone.”
A ball lodges in my throat, and I feel tears threaten, but I tense my jaw, refusing to let it out.
“But I could still feel you,” he whispers. “You were still everywhere. The container of cookies in the fridge, the backsplash you picked out, the way you put all my pictures back in the wrong spot after you dusted my bookshelves.” He smiles to himself. “But I couldn’t rearrange them, because you were the last to touch them, and I wanted everything the way you had it.”
My chin trembles, and I fold my arms over my chest, hiding my balled fists under my arms.
He pauses and then goes on. “Nothing would ever go back to the way it was before you came into my house. I didn’t want it to.” He shakes his head. “I went to work, and I came home, and I stayed there every night and all weekend, every weekend, because that’s where we were together. That’s where I could still feel you.” He steps closer, dropping his voice. “That’s where I could wrap myself up in you and hang on to every last thread in that house that proved you were mine for just a little while.”
His tone grows thick, and I see his eyes water.
“I really thought I was doing what was best,” he says, knitting his brow. “I thought I was taking advantage of you, because you’re young and beautiful and so happy and hopeful despite everything you’d been through. You made me feel like the world was a big place again.”
My breathing shakes, and I don’t know what to do. I hate that he’s here. I hate that I love that he’s here. I hate him.
“I couldn’t steal your life from you and keep you to myself, you know?” he explains. “But then I realized that you’re not happy or hopeful or making me feel good because you’re young. You are those things and you’re capable of those things, because you’re a good person. It’s who you are.”
A tear spills over, gliding down my cheek.
“Baby,” he whispers, his hands shaking. “I hope you love me, because I love you like crazy, and I’m going to want you the rest of my life. I tried to stay away, because I thought it was the right thing, but I fucking can’t. I need you, and I love you. This doesn’t happen twice, and I’m not going to be stupid again. I promise.”
My chin trembles, and something lodges in my throat, and I try to hold it in, but I can’t. My face cracks, and I break down, turning away from him. The tears come like a goddamn waterfall, and I hate him. I fucking hate him.
His arms are around me in a second, and he hugs me from behind, burying his face in my neck.
“I’m sorry I took so long,” he whispers in my ear.
”
”
Penelope Douglas (Birthday Girl)
“
Baby,” Cricket said to the egg. “Small dragon. This would be a VERY SILLY place and time to hatch. Do not do it.” A claw poked straight through the crack and wiggled gleefully at her.
”
”
Tui T. Sutherland (The Hive Queen (Wings of Fire #12))
“
Much of any culture can be linked back to eating and food, food and care, eating and language. To eat one's feelings, to eat dust, words, to eat your own heart out, to eat someone else alive, to eat your cake and have it too, things that are adorable (puppies, babies) that are said to be good enough to eat, to have someone else eat out of the palm of your hand, to be chewed out, a dog-eat-dog world. Chinese isn't any different from English in this way. Chī for "eat," and chī sù, to only eat vegetables, but also, colloquially, to be a pushover. Chī cù, to eat vinegar or be jealous. Chī lì, to eat effort, as for a task that is very strenuous. To eat surprise, to be amazed, chī jī ng. To be completely full or chī bǎo fàn, and thus to have nothing better to do. To eat punishment or get the worst of it, chī kuī. And, most important, to eat hardship, suffering, and pain, chī kǔ, a defining Chinese quality, to be able to bear a great deal without showing a crack.
”
”
Weike Wang (Joan Is Okay)
“
Three girls until, at last, their baby boy. As I sipped my bourbon and cracked peanuts, I pondered the growing desperation the Nashes must have felt each time a child popped out without a penis.
”
”
Gillian Flynn (Sharp Objects)
“
She wouldn’t even hold her own baby.” His voice cracked when he said that, and something shivered inside my heart. I used to think the saddest thing had happened to me, but now I knew it had happened to my sister instead.
”
”
Jennifer Gooch Hummer (Girl Unmoored)
“
It soothed me to imagine a cavernous space inside the earth where missing or lost valuables—the cracked teapots, broken dolls, torn photos, bronzed baby shoes, dead turtles—made their habitation, a place where all our losses came to rest. I was not sure the dead lived among these things, but I was perfectly willing to suppose that they did or that they at least stopped in, as if visiting a ghostly pawnshop, to retrieve what had once, through
”
”
Dale M. Kushner (The Conditions of Love: A Novel)
“
If you have no arms
To hold your crying child but your own arms
And no legs but your own to run the stairs one more time
To fetch what was forgotten
I bow to you
If you have no vehicle
To tote your wee one but the wheels that you drive
And no one else to worry, “Is my baby okay?”
When you have to say goodbye on the doorsteps of daycare
or on that cursed first day of school
I bow to you
If you have no skill but your own skill
To replenish an ever-emptying bank account
And no answers but your own to
Satisfy the endless whys, hows, and whens your child asks and asks again
I bow to you
If you have no tongue to tell the truth
To keep your beloved on the path without a precipice
And no wisdom to impart
Except the wisdom that you’ve acquired
I bow to you
If the second chair is empty
Across the desk from a scornful, judging authority waiting
For your child’s father to appear
And you straighten your spine where you sit
And manage to smile and say, “No one else is coming—I’m it.”
Oh, I bow to you
If your head aches when the spotlight finally shines
on your child because your hands are the only hands there to applaud
I bow to you
If your heart aches because you’ve given until everything in you is gone
And your kid declares, “It’s not enough.”
And you feel the crack of your own soul as you whisper,
“I know, baby. But it’s all mama’s got.”
Oh, how I bow to you
If they are your life while you are their nurse, tutor, maid
Bread winner and bread baker,
Coach, cheerleader and teammate…
If you bleed when your child falls down
I bow, I bow, I bow
If you’re both punisher and hugger
And your own tears are drowned out by the running of the bathroom faucet
because children can’t know that mamas hurt too
Oh, mother of mothers, I bow to you.
—Toni Sorenson
”
”
Toni Sorenson
“
had a third baby because the first two seemed a bit cracked, and they wanted a fresh start. A fresh start at parenting. But the children should never know. They should always have perfect confidence in themselves and their adults.
”
”
Emma Straub (All Adults Here)
“
But though, to landsmen in general, the native inhabitants of the seas have ever regarded with emotions unspeakably unsocial and repelling; though we know the sea to be an everlasting terra incognita, so that Columbus sailed over numberless unknown worlds to discover his one superficial western one; though, by vast odds, the most terrific of all mortal disasters have immemorially and indiscriminately befallen tens and hundreds of thousands of those who have gone upon the waters; though but a moment’s consideration will teach that, however baby man may brag of his science and skill, and however much, in a flattering future, that science and skill may augment; yet for ever and for ever, to the crack of doom, the sea will insult and murder him, and pulverize the stateliest, stiffest frigate he can make; nevertheless, by the continual repetition of these very impressions, man has lost that sense of the full awfulness of the sea which aboriginally belongs to it.
”
”
Herman Melville (Moby-Dick or, The Whale)
“
One such reader sent me an email with the subject line “Head up ass,” which he explained in this way: I vote republican because I’m against other people (authority figures) taking my money (that I work hard for) and giving it to a non-producing, welfare collecting, single mother, crack baby producing future democrat. Simple … You’re an over educated “philosopher” with soft hands who gets paid to ask stupid questions and come up with “reasonable” answers.… Go drop some acid and read some Jung.
”
”
Jonathan Haidt (The Righteous Mind: Why Good People are Divided by Politics and Religion)
“
5. When Begging Ends I love the idea of Divine Source. It reminds us that everything, the fulfillment of every need, always emanates from the One. So if you learn how to keep your vibration high and attuned to That, whatever is needed to sustain you can always occur, often in surprising and delightful ways. Your Source is never a particular person, place, or thing, but God Herself. You never have to beg. Furthermore, Divine Source says that whatever resonates with you will always find you. That which does not, will fall away. It’s that simple. When Outrageous Openness first came out, I experienced this as I took the book around—some stores were simply not drawn to it. But knowing about Divine Source and resonance, I didn’t care. I remember taking it to a spiritual bookstore in downtown San Francisco. The desultory manager sort of half-growled, “Oh, we have a long, long wait here. You can leave a copy for our ‘pile’ in the back room. Then you could call a ton and plead with us. If you get lucky, maybe one day we’ll stock it. Just keep hoping.” “Oh, my God, no!” I shuddered. “Why would I keep twisting your arm? It’ll go easily to the places that are right. You never have to convince someone. The people who are right will just know.” He looked stunned when I thanked him, smiling, and left. And sure enough, other store clerks were so excited, even from the cover alone. They nearly ripped the book out of my hands as I walked in. When I brought it to the main bookstore in San Francisco’s Castro district, I noticed the manager striding toward me was wearing a baseball cap with an image of the goddess Lakshmi. “Great sign,” I mused. He held the book for a second without even cracking it open, then showed the cover to a coworker, yelling, “Hey, let’s give this baby a coming-out party!” So a few weeks later, they did. Sake, fortune cookies, and all. Because you see, what’s meant for you will always, always find you. You never have to be bothered by the people who aren’t meant to understand. And anyway, sometimes years later, they are ready . . . and they do. Change me Divine Beloved into One who knows that You alone are my Source. Let me trust that You fling open every door at the right time. Free me from the illusion of rejection, competition, and scarcity. Fill me with confidence and faith, knowing I never have to beg, just gratefully receive.
”
”
Tosha Silver (Change Me Prayers: The Hidden Power of Spiritual Surrender)
“
One of the things that is wrong with our community is that we don’t aspire to be more. We don’t aspire to be doctors, lawyers, or architects. We don’t care to be business owners, civil rights leaders, bankers, or accountants. Our only desires are crack spot or jump shot and little else. There is more than one way to make it out of the hood.
”
”
Vincent Morris (BRENDA'S GOT A BABY (URBAN REVOLUTION SERIES))
“
Well, a big part of it is how people addicted to crack were treated back in the day.” I sniff and start walking. “People acted like those addicts were soulless zombies, or jokes, or problems to lock away and take their babies from. Now white people get hooked on something, and we’re building fancy new facilities to research how to fix things.
”
”
Alyssa Cole (When No One Is Watching)
“
Every generation of children instinctively nests itself in nature, no matter matter how tiny a scrap of it they can grasp. In a tale of one city child, the poet Audre Lord remembers picking tufts of grass which crept up through the paving stones in New York City and giving them as bouquets to her mother. It is a tale of two necessities. The grass must grow, no matter the concrete suppressing it. The child must find her way to the green, no matter the edifice which would crush it.
"The Maori word for placenta is the same word for land, so at birth the placenta is buried, put back in the mothering earth. A Hindu baby may receive the sun-showing rite surya-darsana when, with conch shells ringing to the skies, the child is introduced to the sun. A newborn child of the Tonga people 'meets' the moon, dipped in the ocean of Kosi Bay in KwaZulu-Natal. Among some of the tribes of India, the qualities of different aspects of nature are invoked to bless the child, so he or she may have the characteristics of earth, sky and wind, of birds and animals, right down to the earthworm. Nothing is unbelonging to the child.
"'My oldest memories have the flavor of earth,' wrote Frederico García Lorca. In the traditions of the Australian deserts, even from its time in the womb, the baby is catscradled in kinship with the world. Born into a sandy hollow, it is cleaned with sand and 'smoked' by fire, and everything -- insects, birds, plants, and animals -- is named to the child, who is told not only what everything is called but also the relationship between the child and each creature. Story and song weave the child into the subtle world of the Dreaming, the nested knowledge of how the child belongs.
"The threads which tie the child to the land include its conception site and the significant places of the Dreaming inherited through its parents. Introduced to creatures and land features as to relations, the child is folded into the land, wrapped into country, and the stories press on the child's mind like the making of felt -- soft and often -- storytelling until the feeling of the story of the country is impressed into the landscape of the child's mind.
"That the juggernaut of ants belongs to a child, belligerently following its own trail. That the twitch of an animal's tail is part of a child's own tale or storyline, once and now again. That on the papery bark of a tree may be written the songline of a child's name. That the prickles of a thornbush may have dynamic relevance to conscience. That a damp hollow by the riverbank is not an occasional place to visit but a permanent part of who you are. This is the beginning of belonging, the beginning of love.
"In the art and myth of Indigenous Australia, the Ancestors seeded the country with its children, so the shimmering, pouring, circling, wheeling, spinning land is lit up with them, cartwheeling into life....
"The human heart's love for nature cannot ultimately be concreted over. Like Audre Lord's tufts of grass, will crack apart paving stones to grasp the sun.
Children know they are made of the same stuff as the grass, as Walt Whitman describes nature creating the child who becomes what he sees:
There was a child went forth every day
And the first object he look'd upon, that object he became...
The early lilacs became part of this child...
And the song of the phoebe-bird...
In Australia, people may talk of the child's conception site as the origin of their selfhood and their picture of themselves. As Whitman wrote of the child becoming aspects of the land, so in Northern Queensland a Kunjen elder describes the conception site as 'the home place for your image.' Land can make someone who they are, giving them fragments of themselves.
”
”
Jay Griffiths (A Country Called Childhood: Children and the Exuberant World)
“
There are now babies being born in our hospitals with crack or heroin habits, come on, fuck, no one would have dreamt such a horrible thing would happen to a newborn babies in Scotland. I didn’t think the sons and daughters, mothers and fathers of Scotland would have been messed up in such a nasty circle of misery, depression, violence, suicides and prisons because of drugs.
”
”
Stephen Richards (Scottish Hard Bastards)
“
All that travel is inevitably exhausting, but it never gets old. Arriving in the next city for the next opportunity is always a thrill. As busy as I am, wherever I am, I try to get out and walk the streets, to check out the sidewalks for cracks, to remember how far I’ve come and appreciate every baby step of the way, to stand in amazement and joy that the pursuit never ends.
”
”
Chris Gardner (The Pursuit of Happyness)
“
Come now, Richard," he said, "don't be foolish. Those were what are called trick babies. They were born in a house of prostitution; and they'll live out their lives that way...but I'll tell you what strikes me, Richard, about the whole matter. It's the way that life asserts itself, no matter what the circumstances. Of course it must be a miserable existence. How could it not be? Yet those little girls manage to live; to breathe, to enjoy themselves. They laugh and they are full of curiosity and tenderness. They adjust, I believe that's the word. The adjust and they reach for the starts in their own way. I tell you it's wondrous to me. They make me think of the wild flowers that grow in the cracks of pavements, just pushing up into the sun, no matter how many feet crush them down.
”
”
Anne Rice (The Witching Hour (Lives of the Mayfair Witches, #1))
“
Sorrow comes with so many defense mechanisms. You have your shock, your denial, your getting wasted, your cracking jokes, and your religion. You also have the old standby catchall--the blind belief in fate, the whole "things happening for a reason" drill.
But my personal favorite defense has always been anger, with its trusty offshoots of self-righteous indignation, bitterness, and resentment.
”
”
Emily Giffin (Baby Proof)
“
Stop looking at me like that,” I whisper as I run a thumb over her jaw. “How am I looking at you?” she whispers back while nuzzling into my palm. “Like you can see every crack and broken piece of me.” Indy leans closer, her lips barely brushing mine. “Maybe I can.” She whispers, and the softness of her lips sends chills over me. “If you could, you would run.” “No, baby,” she presses her lips to mine. “I’m just trying to find out where each piece goes.
”
”
D.J. Krimmer (Derek (Hel's Ink, #4))
“
Acornology
Once upon a time, in a land not so far away, there was a kingdom of acorns, nestled at the foot of a grand old oak tree. Since the citizens of this kingdom were modern, fully Westernized acorns, they went about their life with a purposeful energy; and since they were mid-life baby-boomer acorns, they engaged in a lot of self-help courses. There were seminars called “Getting All You Can out of Your Shell” and “Who Would You Be Without Your Nutty Story?” There were woundedness and recovery groups for acorns who had been bruised in their fall from the tree. There were spas for oiling and polishing those shells and various acornopathic therapies to enhance longevity and well-being.
One day in the midst of this kingdom there suddenly appeared a knotty little stranger, apparently dropped out of the blue by a passing bird. He was capless and dirty, making an immediate negative impression on his fellow acorns. And to make things worse, crouched beneath the mighty oak tree, he stammered out a wild tale. Pointing up at the tree, he said, “We … are … that!”
Delusional thinking, obviously, the other acorns concluded, but they continued to engage him in conversation: “So tell us, how do we … become that tree?” “Well,” said he, pointing downward, “it has something to do with going into the ground … and cracking open the shell.”
“Insane!” they responded. “Totally morbid! Why then we wouldn’t be acorns anymore.
”
”
Jacob Needleman (Lost Christianity)
“
Over the course of the 1970s conservatives made the endangered child into a kind of political and rhetorical abstraction, a way of thinking about the country and its citizens that could help advance a wide range of policy initiatives. They opposed the counterculture on the grounds that rock and roll caused adolescents to lose respect for family life. They promoted the War on Drugs with racially tinged morality tales about addicted inner-city mothers and, crucially, the “superpredator” “crack babies” to whom those mothers supposedly gave birth. (That particular epidemic was later shown to be a myth.)40 And when Anita Bryant led a campaign to allow Dade County to discriminate against homosexuals in hiring teachers for public schools, she named the effort “Save Our Children.” The fear that tied all of these campaigns together was of the ease with which children could be victimized or else corrupted and turned against the society that was supposed to nurture them.
”
”
Richard Beck (We Believe the Children: The Story of a Moral Panic)
“
Good morning, Mike,” I mumbled, making a beeline for the coffeepot.
“Oooooh!” he teased again. “Someone is getting married tonight! Woooooooo…”
“Yep,” I said, taking that first glorious sip of java. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
Mike put his hand over his mouth and snickered. Then he asked, “So…are you guys gonna do some…some kissin’?”
“I certainly hope so,” I said. This only served to make Mike laugh harder.
“Ooooooh!” he squealed. “Are you gonna have a baby?”
Oh, Lord.
I took another hit of Gevalia and answered, “Not today.” Mike cracked up again. He was clearly on a roll.
“What’s so funny this morning, Mike?” I asked.
“Your s-s-s-stomach is gonna get so fat,” he answered. Mike was quickly approaching manic stage--the result of a large, busy weekend and his routine being disrupted. Soon the inevitable crash would come. I just hoped I was on the plane to Australia when it happened. It wasn’t going to be pretty.
“Oh, whatever, Mike,” I answered, feigning indignation.
”
”
Ree Drummond (The Pioneer Woman: Black Heels to Tractor Wheels)
“
least.” “I don’t remember you complaining.” “Yes, well, I’d only been fantasizing about it for ages.” “See, there’s a thing,” Alex points out. “You just told me that. You can tell me other stuff.” “It’s hardly the same.” He rolls over onto his stomach, considers, and very deliberately says, “Baby.” It’s become a thing: baby. He knows it’s become a thing. He’s slipped up and accidentally said it a few times, and each time, Henry positively melts and Alex pretends not to notice, but he’s not above playing dirty here. There’s a slow hiss of an exhale across the line, like air escaping through a crack in a window. “It’s, ah. It’s not the best time,” he says. “How did you put it? Nutso family stuff.” Alex purses his lips, bites down on his cheek. There it is. He’s wondered when Henry would finally start talking about the royal family. He makes oblique references to Philip being wound so tight as to double as an atomic clock, or to his grandmother’s disapproval, and he mentions Bea as often as Alex mentions June, but Alex knows there’s more to it than that. He couldn’t tell you when he started noticing, though, just like he doesn’t know when he started ticking off the days of Henry’s moods. “Ah,” he says. “I see.” “I don’t suppose you keep up with any British tabloids, do you?” “Not if I can help it.” Henry offers the bitterest of laughs. “Well, the Daily Mail has always had a bit of an affinity for airing our dirty laundry. They, er, they gave my sister this nickname years ago. ‘The Powder Princess.’” A ding of recognition. “Because of the…” “Yes, the cocaine, Alex.” “Okay, that does sound familiar.” Henry sighs. “Well, someone’s managed to bypass security to spray paint ‘Powder Princess’ on the side of her car.” “Shit,” Alex says. “And she’s not taking it well?” “Bea?” Henry laughs, a little more genuinely this time. “No, she doesn’t usually care about those things. She’s fine. More shaken up that someone got past security than anything.
”
”
Casey McQuiston (Red, White & Royal Blue)
“
I don’t believe in ghosts,” I said. “And neither do you, not while you’re on the job, anyway.” I didn’t tell him: the ghosts I believe in weren’t trapped in the Spains’ bloodstains. They thronged the whole estate, whirling like great moths in and out of the empty doorways and over the expanses of cracked earth, battering against the sparse lighted windows, mouths stretched wide in silent howls: all the people who should have lived here. The young men who had dreamed of carrying their wives over these thresholds, the babies who should have been brought home from the hospital to soft nurseries in these rooms, the teenagers who should have had their first kisses leaning against lampposts that would never be lit. Over time, the ghosts of things that happened start to turn distant; once they’ve cut you a couple of million times, their edges blunt on your scar tissue, they wear thin. The ones that slice like razors forever are the ghosts of things that never got the chance to happen.
”
”
Tana French (Broken Harbor (Dublin Murder Squad, #4))
“
Why, all our art treasures of to-day are only the dug-up commonplaces of three or four hundred years ago. I wonder if there is real intrinsic beauty in the old soup-plates, beer-mugs, and candle-snuffers that we prize so now, or if it is only the halo of age glowing around them that gives them their charms in our eyes. The “old blue” that we hang about our walls as ornaments were the common every-day household utensils of a few centuries ago; and the pink shepherds and the yellow shepherdesses that we hand round now for all our friends to gush over, and pretend they understand, were the unvalued mantel-ornaments that the mother of the eighteenth century would have given the baby to suck when he cried. Will it be the same in the future? Will the prized treasures of to-day always be the cheap trifles of the day before? Will rows of our willow-pattern dinner-plates be ranged above the chimneypieces of the great in the years 2000 and odd? Will the white cups with the gold rim and the beautiful gold flower inside (species unknown), that our Sarah Janes now break in sheer light-heartedness of spirit, be carefully mended, and stood upon a bracket, and dusted only by the lady of the house? That china dog that ornaments the bedroom of my furnished lodgings. It is a white dog. Its eyes blue. Its nose is a delicate red, with spots. Its head is painfully erect, its expression is amiability carried to verge of imbecility. I do not admire it myself. Considered as a work of art, I may say it irritates me. Thoughtless friends jeer at it, and even my landlady herself has no admiration for it, and excuses its presence by the circumstance that her aunt gave it to her. But in 200 years’ time it is more than probable that that dog will be dug up from somewhere or other, minus its legs, and with its tail broken, and will be sold for old china, and put in a glass cabinet. And people will pass it round, and admire it. They will be struck by the wonderful depth of the colour on the nose, and speculate as to how beautiful the bit of the tail that is lost no doubt was. We, in this age, do not see the beauty of that dog. We are too familiar with it. It is like the sunset and the stars: we are not awed by their loveliness because they are common to our eyes. So it is with that china dog. In 2288 people will gush over it. The making of such dogs will have become a lost art. Our descendants will wonder how we did it, and say how clever we were. We shall be referred to lovingly as “those grand old artists that flourished in the nineteenth century, and produced those china dogs.” The “sampler” that the eldest daughter did at school will be spoken of as “tapestry of the Victorian era,” and be almost priceless. The blue-and-white mugs of the present-day roadside inn will be hunted up, all cracked and chipped, and sold for their weight in gold, and rich people will use them for claret cups; and travellers from Japan will buy up all the “Presents from Ramsgate,” and “Souvenirs of Margate,” that may have escaped destruction, and take them back to Jedo as ancient English curios.
”
”
Jerome K. Jerome (Complete Works of Jerome K. Jerome)
“
Gina hoisted herself up onto her elbows and gaped at Spike. "So that's the famous Spike I've been hearing so much about from your brothers? Damn, he is ugly."
Jesse, who'd stayed where he was, looked defensive. Spike was his baby, and you just don't go around calling Jesse's baby ugly.
"He's not so bad," I said, hoping Gina would get the message and shut up.
"Are you on crack?" Gina wanted to know. "Simon, the thing's only got one ear."
Suddenly, the large, gilt-framed mirror above the dressing table started to shake. It had a tendency to do this whenever Jesse got annoyed - really annoyed.
Gina, not knowing this, stared at the mirror with growing excitement. "Hey!" she cried. "All right! Another one!"
She meant an earthquake, of course, but this, like the one before, was no earthquake. It was just Jesse letting off steam.
Then the next thing I knew, a bottle of finger-nail polish Gina had left on the dressing table went flying and, defying all gravitational law, landed upside down in the suitcase she had placed on the floor at the end of the daybed, around seven or eight feet away.
I probably don't need to add that the bottle of polish - it was emerald green - was uncapped. And that it ended up on top of the clothes Gina hadn't unpacked yet.
Gina let out a terrified shriek, threw back the comforter, and dove to the floor, trying to salvage what she could. I, meanwhile, threw Jesse a very dirty look.
But all he said was, "Don't look at me like that, Susannah. You heard what she said about him." He sounded wounded. "She called him ugly.
”
”
Meg Cabot (Reunion (The Mediator, #3))
“
The tide of our national meanness rises incrementally, one brutalizing experience at a time, inside one person at a time in a chain of working-class Americans stretching back for decades. Back to the terror-filled nineteen-year-old girl from Weirton, West Virginia, who patrols the sweat-smelling halls of one of the empire's far-flung prisons at midnight. Back to my neighbor's eighty-year-old father, who remembers getting paid $2 apiece for literally cracking open the heads of union organizers at our textile and sewing mills during the days of Virginia's Byrd political machine. (It was the Depression and the old man needed the money to support his family.) The brutal way in which America's hardest-working folks historically were forced to internalize the values of a gangster capitalist class continues to elude the left, which, with few exceptions, understands not a thing about how this political and economic system has hammered the humanity of ordinary working people.
Much of the ongoing battle for America's soul is about healing the souls of these Americans and rousing them from the stupefying glut of commodity and spectacle. It is about making sure that they—and we—refuse to accept torture as the act of "heroes" and babies deformed by depleted uranium as the "price of freedom." Caught up in the great self-referential hologram of imperial America, force-fed goods and hubris like fattened steers, working people like World Championship Wrestling and Confederate flags and flat-screen televisions and the idea of an American empire. ("American Empire! I like the sound of that!" they think to themselves, without even the slightest idea what it means historically.)
”
”
Joe Bageant (Deer Hunting with Jesus: Dispatches from America's Class War)
“
Ribs hurting?" When he only shrugged, she shook her head. "Let me take a look."
"She barely caught me."
"Oh,for heaven's sake." Impatient, Keeley did what she would have done with one of her brothers: She tugged Brian's T-shirt out of his jeans.
"Well,darling,if I'd known you were so anxious to get me undressed,I'd have cooperated fully,and in private."
"Shut up.God, Brian, you said it was nothing."
"It's not much."
His definition of not much was a softball-size bruise the ribs in a burst of ugly red and black. "Macho is tedious, so just shut up."
He started to grin,then yelped when she pressed her fingers to the bruise. "Hell, woman,if that's your idea of tender mercies, keep them."
"You could have a cracked rib. You need an X ray."
"I don't need a damned-ouch! Bollocks and bloody hell, stop poking." He tried to pull his shirt down, but she simply yanked it up again.
"Stand still,and don't be a baby."
"A minute ago it was don't be macho, now it's don't be a baby. What do you want?"
"For you to behave sensibly."
"It's difficult for a man to behave sensibly when a woman's taking his clothes off in broad daylight. If you're going to kiss it and make it better, I've several other bruises. I've a dandy one on my ass as it happens."
"I'm sure that's terribly amusing.One of the men can drive you to the emergency room"
"No one's driving me anywhere. I'd know if my ribs are cracked as I've had a few in my time.It's a bruise, and it's throbbing like a bitch now that you've been playing with it."
She spotted another, riding high on his hip,and gave that a poke. This time he groaned.
"Keeley,you're torturing me here."
"Im just trying..." She trailed off as she lifted her head and saw his eyes. It wasn't pain or annoyance in them now. It was heat,and it was frustration. And it was surprisingly gratifying. "Really?"
It was wrong,and it was foolish, but a sip of power was a heady thing.She trailed her fingers along his hip, up his ribs and down again, and felt his mucles quiver. "Why don't you stop me?"
His throat hurt. "You make my head swim. And you know it."
"Maybe I do.Now.Maybe I like it." She'd never been deliberately provocative before. Had never wanted to be. And she'd never known the thrill of having a strong man turn to putty under her hands. "Maybe I've thought about you, Brian,the way you said I would."
"You pick a fine time to tell me when there's people everywhere, and your father one of them.
”
”
Nora Roberts (Irish Rebel (Irish Hearts, #3))
“
Eddie looked at him-old long, tall, and ugly, who'd done God knew how many ugly things in the name of reaching his Tower-and wondered if Roland had any idea at all of how much that hurt. Just that casual admonition not to behave like a child, grinning and cracking jokes, now that their lives were at wager.
He opened his mouth to say something-an Eddie Dean Special, something that would be both funny and stinging at the same time, the kind of remark that always used to drive his brother Henry dogshit-and then closed it again. Maybe long, tall, and ugly was right; maybe it was time to put away the one-liners and dead baby jokes. Maybe it was finally time to grow up.
”
”
Stephen King (Wizard and Glass (The Dark Tower, #4))
“
Daddy looks past me at my boyfriend. “So . . . Plain-Ass Chris.” Seven snorts. DeVante snickers. Momma goes, “Maverick!” as I say, “Daddy!” “At least it’s not white boy,” Chris says. “Exactly,” Daddy says. “It’s a step up. You gotta earn my tolerance in increments if you gon’ date my daughter.” “Lord.” Momma rolls her eyes. “Chris, baby, you’ve been out here all night?” The way she says it, I can’t help but laugh. She’s basically asking him, “You do realize you’re in the hood, right?” “Yes, ma’am,” Chris says. “All night.” Daddy grunts. “Maybe you do got some balls then.” My mouth drops, and Momma says, “Maverick Carter!” Seven and DeVante crack up. But Chris? Chris says, “Yes, sir, I’d like to think I do.” “Daaaaamn,” says Seven. He reaches to give Chris dap, but Daddy cuts him a hard eye and he pulls his hand back. “A’ight, Plain-Ass Chris,” Daddy says. “Boxing gym, next Saturday, you and me.” Chris lifts his oxygen mask so fast. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said—” “Calm down, I’m not gon’ fight you,” Daddy says. “We gon’ train. Get to know each other. You been seeing my daughter for a minute now. I gotta know you, and you can learn a lot about a man at a boxing gym.” “Oh . . .” Chris’s shoulders relax. “Okay.” He puts the oxygen mask back on. Daddy grins. It’s a little too mischievous for my liking. He’s gonna kill my poor boyfriend.
”
”
Angie Thomas (The Hate U Give (The Hate U Give, #1))
“
Then the events leading up to her collapse came back to her in a flash. Her hands flew automatically to her belly and she was only partially reassured to feel the tight ball there. Was her baby okay? Was she herself okay?
She blinked harder to bring the room more into focus. There was light shining through a crack in the bathroom door. A glance at the blinds told her that it was dark outside.
Then her gaze fell on the chair beside her bed and she found Ryan staring at her, his gaze intense. She flinched away from the raw emotion shining in his blue eyes.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “How are you feeling?”
“Numb,” she answered before she could think better of it. “Kind of blank. My head doesn’t hurt anymore. Are my feet still swollen?”
He carefully picked up the sheet and pushed it over her feet. “Maybe a little. Not as bad as they were. They’ve been giving you meds and they’re monitoring the baby.”
“How is she?” Kelly asked, a knot of fear in her throat.
“For now, she’s doing fine. Your blood pressure stabilized, but they might have to do a C-section if it goes back up or if the baby starts showing signs of distress.”
Kelly closed her eyes and then suddenly Ryan was close to her, holding her, his lips pressed against her temple.
“Don’t worry, love,” he murmured. “You’re supposed to stay calm. You’re getting the best possible care. I’ve made sure of it. They’re monitoring you round-the-clock. And the doctor said the baby has an excellent prognosis at thirty-four weeks’ gestation.”
She sagged against the pillow and closed her eyes. Relief pulsed through her but she was so tired she couldn’t muster the energy to do anything more than lie there thanking God that her baby was okay.
“I’m going to take care of you, Kell,” Ryan said softly against her temple. “You and our baby. Nothing will ever hurt you again. I swear it.”
Tears burned her eyelids. She was emotionally and physically exhausted and didn’t have the strength to argue. Something inside her was broken and she had no idea how to fix it. She felt so…disconnected.
”
”
Maya Banks (Wanted by Her Lost Love (Pregnancy & Passion, #2))
“
TO MY BELOVED,
Its neither a piece of paper nor a letter, rather it's my small heart which I'm gifting it to you darling.It seems time stood still without ur presence around me. My days and nights have gone worthless. All my heart could do is to recall the memories of time which we have spend together. My heart gets rejoiced whenever your beautiful face comes before my eyes. Your mesmerizing eyes drive me to another world. Your flowing hair looks tantalizing and your rosy lips seems to be meant only for saying lovely words.
While having a cup of coffee yesterday, numerous moments striked my heart. Our first meeting, when you were looking like a fairy in white salwar-suit. Still fresh in my mind, your pretty smile and bowing your head down to laugh with your hand on your lips. I confess that your every action was stealing my heart and I couldn't withdraw myself from lookig you.
The gift you presented me on my birthday gives me a sigh of relief that you are always there with me. Sweetheart, In the classroom, I cracked useless jokes and PJ's just to see your charming smile. Kept gazing your lips, just to heat some golden words. You had stolen my heart.
Dedicated '' I don't know when and how you arrived in my life,
Don't know when my heart star beating for you, day n night....
My eyes kept staring the window pane,
Wishing one day u'll come in my lane....
Darling you're the only one whom I admire,
It's you whom my heart desperately desires...
Being with you is my only need,
You are now the medicine of my heartbeat...
I Craved your name on my heart,
The day when I decided not to loose you ever,
And I promise you sweetheart that,
I love you & i'll love you for ever, ever n ever......
It's true my baby that, i love you like anything. Miss you from very morning 2 the night. MY senses are active to feel you, to hear you, to see you, to taste every sorrow and happiness of your life. Jaana, get embedded in me, in my soul so that i can live with you, for you........
Dying to have your reply.....
Truly Your's
PK
”
”
Prabhat Kumar
“
I never knew Kierkegaard was funny, but I think this is funny: “The greatest hazard of all, losing one’s self, can occur very quietly in the world, as if it were nothing at all. No other loss can occur so quietly; any other loss—an arm, a leg, five dollars, a wife, etc.—is sure to be noticed.” I did not notice. I would catch my reflection in the mirror in the bathroom, where I went again and again to wash my hands after changing diapers. So used to gazing down at babies, I was shocked, every time, to discover there was another face up there. Our eyes would meet, and then I would finish drying my red, cracked hands and leave her behind, as if she were nothing at all. I guess it’s not that funny.
”
”
Tabitha Carvan (This Is Not a Book About Benedict Cumberbatch: The Joy of Loving Something--Anything--Like Your Life Depends On It)
“
There's nothing worse than having someone moping around feeling sorry for themselves, is there?"
"A damned nuisance," he agreed lightly as he drew her into the private car. "How much did you take me for in there?"
It took her a minute to realize he'd changed the subject. "Oh,I don't know-five,six hundred."
"I'll put breakfast on your tab," he said as the doors opened to his and Serena's suite. Her laugh pleased him as much as the hug she gave him.
"Just like a man," Serena stated as she came into the room. "Waltzing in with a beautiful woman at the crack of dawn while the wife stays home and changes the baby." She held a gurgling Mac over her shoulder.
Justin grinned at her. "Nothing worse than a jealous woman.
”
”
Nora Roberts (The MacGregors: Alan & Grant (The MacGregors, #3-4))
“
I didn’t know my dad in person and I never got to say goodbye to him at his funeral and I thought it would be nice to say a few words now that I sort of feel I know him a bit better.’ She gave a nervous smile, and pushed a strand of hair from her face.
‘So. Will … Dad. When I first found out you were my real father, I’ll be honest, I was a bit freaked out. I’d hoped my real dad was going to be this wise, handsome man, who would want to teach me stuff and protect me and take me on trips to show me amazing places that he loved. And what I actually got was an angry man in a wheelchair who just, you know, killed himself. But because of Lou, and your family, over the last few months I’ve come to understand you a bit better.
‘I’ll always be sad and maybe even a bit angry that I never got to meet you, but now I want to say thank you too. “. You gave me a lot, without knowing it. I think I’m like you in good ways – and probably a few not-so-good ways. You gave me blue eyes and my hair colour and the fact that I think Marmite is revolting and the ability to do black ski runs and … Well, apparently you also gave me a certain amount of moodiness – that’s other people’s opinion, by the way. Not mine.’
‘But mostly you gave me a family I didn’t know I had. And that’s cool. Because, to be honest, it wasn’t going that well before they all turned up.’ Her smile wavered.
‘ So, um, Will … Dad, I’m not going to go on and on because speeches are boring and also that baby is going to start wailing any minute, which will totally harsh the mood. But I just wanted to say thank you, from your daughter, and that I … love you and I’ll always miss you, and I hope if you’re looking down, and you can see me, you’re glad. That I exist. Because me being here sort of means you’re still here, doesn’t it?’ Lily’s voice cracked and her eyes filled with tears. Her gaze slid towards Camilla, who gave a small nod.
”
”
Jojo Moyes (After You (Me Before You, #2))
“
"I'm not going anywhere. I'm joining your little gang of baby heroes on the quest to find Superdad."
Simon and Derek exchanged a look.
"No," Derek said.
"No? Excuse me, it was Rae who betrayed you guys. Not me. I helped Chloe."
"And was it Rae who tormented her at Lyle House?"
"Tormented?" A derisive snort. "I didn't—"
"You did everything you could to get Chloe kicked out," Simon said. "And when that didn't work, you tried to kill her."
"Kill her?" Tori's mouth hardened. "I'm not my mother. Don't you dare accuse—"
"You lured her into the crawl space," Derek said. "Hit her over the head with a brick, bound and gagged her, and locked her in. Did you even check to make sure she was okay? That you hadn't cracked her skull?"
Tori sputtered a protest, but from the horror in her eyes, I knew the possibility hadn't occurred to her.
"Derek," I said, "I don't think—"
"No she didn't think. She could have killed you with the brick, suffocated you with the gag, given you a heart attack from fright, not to mention what would have happened if you hadn't gotten out of your bindings. It only takes a couple of days to die from dehydration."
"I would never have left Chloe to die. You can't accuse me of that."
"No," Derek said. "Just of wanting hr locked up in a mental hospital. And why? Because you didn't like her. Because she talked to a guy you did like. Maybe you're not your mother, Tori. But what you are..." He fixed her with an icy look. "I don't want around."
The expression on her face...I felt for her, whether she'd welcome my sympathy or not.
"We don't trust you," Simon said, his tone softer than his brother's. "We can't have someone along that we don't trust."
"What if I'm okay with it," I cut in. "If i feel safe with her..."
"You don't," Derek said. "You won't kick her to the curb, though, because it's not the kind of person you are." He met Tori's gaze. "But it's the kind of person I am. Chloe won't force you to leave because she'd feel horrible if anything happened to you. Me? I don't care. You brought it on yourself."
”
”
Kelley Armstrong (The Awakening (Darkest Powers, #2))
“
Listen to Me in the truth of your soul. Listen to Me in the feelings of your heart. Listen to Me in the quiet of your mind.
Hear Me, everywhere. Whenever you have a question, simply know that I have answered it already. Then open your eyes to your world. My response could be in an article already published. In the sermon already written and about to be delivered. In the movie now being made. In the song just yesterday composed. In the words about to be said by a loved one. In the heart of a new friend about to be made.
My Truth is in the whisper of the wind, the babble of the brook, the crack of the thunder, the tap of the rain. It is the feel of the earth, the fragrance of the lily, the warmth of the sun, the pull of the moon.
My Truth—and your surest help in time of need—is as awesome as the night sky, and as simply, incontrovertibly, trustful as a baby’s gurgle.
It is as loud as a pounding heartbeat—and as quiet as a breath taken in unity with Me.
I will not leave you, I cannot leave you, for you are My creation and My product, My daughter and My son, My purpose and My…Self.
Call on Me, therefore, wherever and whenever you are separate from the peace that I am.
I will be there. With Truth. And Light. And Love.
”
”
Neale Donald Walsch
“
She sighed “Can’t you just think about sex like a normal guy?”
He blinked. “Excuse me?”
“How are you not thinking about sex right now?”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking about.”
“Yeah, but I know what you’re feeling. And you’re feeling…happy. Where’s all the desire and want?”
He picked up another arrow. “Are you seriously mad at me right now because I’m not having lustful thoughts?”
“No. I’m just confused. I mean, I’m thinking about sex. But you’re over there coating arrows in blood and thinking about God knows what—“
“Star Wars figurines.”
“What?”
“That’s what I was thinking about.”
She blinked in confusion. “Star Wars figurines make you happy?”
He smiled and went back to the arrows on the table. “No. You make me happy. My happy feelings are because of you. My desire and want feelings—which I have plenty of—are also because of you, but I have those contained right now because I’m trying not to overwhelm you with emotions.”
“Oh.”
“Trust me,” he grabbed another arrow. “You don’t want me to think about sex when you can feel my emotions. It’s very intense. I could barely handle it with you and I had five hundred years of practice.”
She shot her eyes to him. “What are you trying to say? That I’m some kind of baby? I can handle it.”
He shook his head and smiled. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Try me.”
This was a dangerous game, but since only his life was at stake…
“Okay.” He shrugged and started thinking about sex. With Scarlet.
He watched as she stood frozen and the color drained from her face as everything he felt rolled into her. Then bright red color returned to her face and she looked like she might catch fire. He kept his eyes on her as his feelings stayed in the hottest parts of his being.
She looked at him with hungry eyes and moved her mouth to speak but no sound came out. He watched her breathing grow heavier. She dropped the arrows she held and stared at him.
He changed his pattern of thought and tried to calm his emotions so she wouldn’t do anything she regretted.
Once his thoughts were back on happy non-sexual things, he glanced at Scarlet, who was still frozen in place with red cheeks and parted lips.
“Scar?” He leaned to the side to look in her far away eyes. “You okay?”
She mouthed something and nodded, then tried again. “Yeah.” Her voice cracked. She was staring at the wall with big eyes. “I’m, uh…I’m good. I’m great.”
He went back to the arrows and smiled. “Told you.”
Scarlet blinked a few times and looked at Tristan. “We definitely need a chaperone.
”
”
Chelsea Fine (Avow (The Archers of Avalon, #3))
“
Her mother cleaved him, cracking open like a peach pit split the tender centre mewling, a monster turned a baby. They snatched up the infant, innocent, beastly, from Half World they fled, they fled to the Realm of Flesh. Gee could not stop the words in the terrible book from popping up in his mind. The images that formed filled him with fear and fascination. Confusion. A creeping sense of recognition. The déjà vu of dreams…. Half World. The words whispered, echoed inside him. Like something almost familiar. Something he’d forgotten— How could Popo do this to him? Gee pounded the heels of his fists on the thick table. He pounded and pounded until he could feel the physical pain. Maybe Popo had written this book herself…. Maybe it was an elaborate psychological experiment? Maybe she was a psychotic, abusive person. Those irregularities in his adoption…. There were no papers. He had no birth certificate. His grandmother had found someone to forge documents. It had cost a lot of money. Popo had kidnapped him from somewhere and his real parents were still looking for him, far far away. That made more sense than the gibberish book. He wasn’t a murderous monster from a different Realm! Ridiculous! Mad. Popo! he raged. You did this to me! It’s all your fault! That’s why he didn’t have a real name. Baby G. Like a foundling in a basket. Baby X. John Doe. Why hadn’t she given him a proper name? The school had written his name as “Gee” when they saw Ms. Wei, saw that his papers identified him only as “G.” They must have thought she was illiterate. Did the teachers think it would make him more Asian? Because it hadn’t! When he’d finally asked his popo about his real name, she had been silent for a long time. You must seek your own name, she finally said. When the time comes.
”
”
Hiromi Goto (Darkest Light)