Cutting Ties With Friends Quotes

I’m a modern man, a man for the millennium. Digital and smoke free. A diversified multi-cultural, post-modern deconstruction that is anatomically and ecologically incorrect. I’ve been up linked and downloaded, I’ve been inputted and outsourced, I know the upside of downsizing, I know the downside of upgrading. I’m a high-tech low-life. A cutting edge, state-of-the-art bi-coastal multi-tasker and I can give you a gigabyte in a nanosecond! I’m new wave, but I’m old school and my inner child is outward bound. I’m a hot-wired, heat seeking, warm-hearted cool customer, voice activated and bio-degradable. I interface with my database, my database is in cyberspace, so I’m interactive, I’m hyperactive and from time to time I’m radioactive. Behind the eight ball, ahead of the curve, ridin the wave, dodgin the bullet and pushin the envelope. I’m on-point, on-task, on-message and off drugs. I’ve got no need for coke and speed. I've got no urge to binge and purge. I’m in-the-moment, on-the-edge, over-the-top and under-the-radar. A high-concept, low-profile, medium-range ballistic missionary. A street-wise smart bomb. A top-gun bottom feeder. I wear power ties, I tell power lies, I take power naps and run victory laps. I’m a totally ongoing big-foot, slam-dunk, rainmaker with a pro-active outreach. A raging workaholic. A working rageaholic. Out of rehab and in denial! I’ve got a personal trainer, a personal shopper, a personal assistant and a personal agenda. You can’t shut me up. You can’t dumb me down because I’m tireless and I’m wireless, I’m an alpha male on beta-blockers. I’m a non-believer and an over-achiever, laid-back but fashion-forward. Up-front, down-home, low-rent, high-maintenance. Super-sized, long-lasting, high-definition, fast-acting, oven-ready and built-to-last! I’m a hands-on, foot-loose, knee-jerk head case pretty maturely post-traumatic and I’ve got a love-child that sends me hate mail. But, I’m feeling, I’m caring, I’m healing, I’m sharing-- a supportive, bonding, nurturing primary care-giver. My output is down, but my income is up. I took a short position on the long bond and my revenue stream has its own cash-flow. I read junk mail, I eat junk food, I buy junk bonds and I watch trash sports! I’m gender specific, capital intensive, user-friendly and lactose intolerant. I like rough sex. I like tough love. I use the “F” word in my emails and the software on my hard-drive is hardcore--no soft porn. I bought a microwave at a mini-mall; I bought a mini-van at a mega-store. I eat fast-food in the slow lane. I’m toll-free, bite-sized, ready-to-wear and I come in all sizes. A fully-equipped, factory-authorized, hospital-tested, clinically-proven, scientifically- formulated medical miracle. I’ve been pre-wash, pre-cooked, pre-heated, pre-screened, pre-approved, pre-packaged, post-dated, freeze-dried, double-wrapped, vacuum-packed and, I have an unlimited broadband capacity. I’m a rude dude, but I’m the real deal. Lean and mean! Cocked, locked and ready-to-rock. Rough, tough and hard to bluff. I take it slow, I go with the flow, I ride with the tide. I’ve got glide in my stride. Drivin and movin, sailin and spinin, jiving and groovin, wailin and winnin. I don’t snooze, so I don’t lose. I keep the pedal to the metal and the rubber on the road. I party hearty and lunch time is crunch time. I’m hangin in, there ain’t no doubt and I’m hangin tough, over and out!

When we speak of man, we have a conception of humanity as a whole, and before applying scientific methods to the investigation of his movement we must accept this as a physical fact. But can anyone doubt to-day that all the millions of individuals and all the innumerable types and characters constitute an entity, a unit? Though free to think and act, we are held together, like the stars in the firmament, with ties inseparable. These ties cannot be seen, but we can feel them. I cut myself in the finger, and it pains me: this finger is a part of me. I see a friend hurt, and it hurts me, too: my friend and I are one. And now I see stricken down an enemy, a lump of matter which, of all the lumps of matter in the universe, I care least for, and it still grieves me. Does this not prove that each of us is only part of a whole? For ages this idea has been proclaimed in the consummately wise teachings of religion, probably not alone as a means of insuring peace and harmony among men, but as a deeply founded truth. The Buddhist expresses it in one way, the Christian in another, but both say the same: We are all one. Metaphysical proofs are, however, not the only ones which we are able to bring forth in support of this idea. Science, too, recognizes this connectedness of separate individuals, though not quite in the same sense as it admits that the suns, planets, and moons of a constellation are one body, and there can be no doubt that it will be experimentally confirmed in times to come, when our means and methods for investigating psychical and other states and phenomena shall have been brought to great perfection. Still more: this one human being lives on and on. The individual is ephemeral, races and nations come and pass away, but man remains. Therein lies the profound difference between the individual and the whole.

I feel closer ties and more intimate bonds with certain characters in books, with certain images I’ve seen in engravings, than with many supposedly real people, with that metaphysical absurdity known as “flesh and blood.” In fact “flesh and blood” describes them very well: they resemble cuts of meat laid out on the butcher’s marble slab, dead creatures bleeding as though still alive, the sirloin steaks and cutlets of Fate.

My passionate interest in social justice and social responsibility has always stood in curious contrast to a marked lack of desire for direct association with men and women. I am a horse for single harness, not cut out for tandem or team work. I have never belonged wholeheartedly to country or state, to my circle of friends, or even to my own family. These ties have always been accompanied by a vague aloofness, and the wish to withdraw into myself increases with the years. Such isolation is sometimes bitter, but I do not regret being cut off from the understanding and sympathy of other men. I lose something by it, to be sure, but I am compensated for it in being rendered independent of the customs, opinions, and prejudices of others, and am not tempted to rest my peace of mind upon such shifting foundations.

I’ve always liked you, from the first moment I saw you at the Pigafetta Stadium.” He kept his distance because he wanted her too much. “And ever since that day, I knew that you were in love with another guy, and that he would sooner or later feel the same way I did.” Cutting ties with her was excruciatingly painful. “I just hoped that he would be stupid enough to let me have you,” he gasped. “But he wasn’t.

Cut the toxic ties that force you to mask your true feelings. - Gowri Bhargav

Well, last night in a tavern, a captain in the king's guard offered violence to the sweetheart of a young solider, who naturally ran him through. But it seems there is some cursed law against killing guardsmen, and the boy and his girl fled away. It was bruited about that I was seen with them, and so today I was haled into court, and a judge asked me where the lad had gone. I replied that since he was a friend of mine, I could not betray him. Then the court waxed wroth, and the judge talked a great deal about my duty to the state, and society, and other things I did not understand, and bade me tell where my friend had flown. By this time I was becoming wrathful myself, for I had explained my position. But I choked my ire and held my peace, and the judge squalled that I had shown contempt for the court, and that I should be hurled into a dungeon to rot until I betrayed my friend. So then, seeing that they were all mad, I drew my sword and cleft the judge's skull; then I cut my way out of the court, and seeing the high constable's stallion tied near by, I rode for the wharfs, where I thought to find a ship bound for foreign parts. - Conan the Cimmerian, Queen of the Black Coast

The most hurtful thing I have ever heard come from a friend is ' i think its best we cut all ties' see for them it was just a friendship for me it was like having to cut out a piece of my heart and do with out it. But i would rather live without someone than to have them in my inner circle when they would rather rather not have anything to do with me

The root of faults is nothing other than your ego-clinging, the attitude of deluded fixation, so cut the ties of ego-clinging! Cast away the fixation on enemy and friend! Forsake worldly concerns! Abandon materialistic pursuits! Engage in nothing but the Dharma from the core of your heart! Just as a seedling doesn't grow on a stone, there will be no enhancement without removing the fault of ego-clinging. You should therefore abandon the root of all evils, ego-clinging. (p. 90)

Our bad habits are the ones leading us to our death. Bad life, bad behavior, bad friends and bad things are always addictive. Choose not to start on something that other people are struggling to quit. Choose not to be involved with people that everyone are trying to cut ties with. Choose not to be close to people who are bad influence in your life.

Beyond the horizon of the place we lived when we were young In a world of magnets and miracles Our thoughts strayed constantly and without boundary The ringing of the division bell had begun Along the Long Road and on down the Causeway Do they still meet there by the Cut There was a ragged band that followed in our footsteps Running before times took our dreams away Leaving the myriad small creatures trying to tie us to the ground To a life consumed by slow decay The grass was greener The light was brighter When friends surrounded The nights of wonder Looking beyond the embers of bridges glowing behind us To a glimpse of how green it was on the other side Steps taken forwards but sleepwalking back again Dragged by the force of some sleeping tide At a higher altitude with flag unfurled We reached the dizzy heights of that dreamed of world Encumbered forever by desire and ambition There's a hunger still unsatisfied Our weary eyes still stray to the horizon Though down this road we've been so many times The grass was greener The light was brighter The taste was sweeter The nights of wonder With friends surrounded The dawn mist glowing The water flowing The endless river Forever and ever

Friendship between tow persons, or two nations, is an unbreakable bond, a tie which cannot be cut. An honourable heart does not cast aside a friend because he is in trouble, nor even if he changes his nature and becomes a criminal. Between two nations friendship must also be eternal, else the friend is false and being false in one event was always false. And what was our crime against the Americans? The Great Change? But is it a crime to change a government? By whose law can it be called a crime? It is of no more importance, between friends, than for one to change his garment! For this lack of reason our love for Americans is changed to hate. I fear for the future! A generation is growing up here in our country which has never seen an American face or heard an American voice. What do they know of Americans except to hate them as they are taught to do? There is no hate so dangerous as that which once was love. .... - To the Americans, Communism is a crime. They will have none of it. - But why, when it is ours, not theirs? .... - I suppose this American concern with a form of government springs from their own history. Their ancestors fled from Europe to escape tyranny from their ancient rulers. Freedom was their dream. To them, therefore, tyranny is endemic in Communism. They will have none of it. It is not we who are Chinese whom they hate. It is the tyranny they imagine.

I dismissed this course of action, sensing my own reserves of strengths, but I experimented with the idea and took it as far as I could in a game I christened Bus Stop: on summer nights, I would stretch out on the road in front of my house, on hot, grainy asphalt scattered with sharp bits of gravel, and watch and wait for growling motors, the blinding movement of headlights, and I weighed up the pros and cons, what tied me to life like a blood oath, what left me cold, or tired me out; and when the noise grew sharper, more grating, and when the headlights from the first bend in the road began to cut out the sides of the buildings and project a slow, revolving shadow dance on the wall, I always came back to the same conclusion - that I felt something stir inside me, as hazy and phony as a childhood memory, as insistent as a hit song you'd heard so often you couldn't get its bitterness out of your head, something that promised me a better future, only somewhere else. And I would unpeel myself from the road, I'd pick myself up, what was left of me, what could still be of some use, and slowly make my way back to the pink gravel of the sidewalk, just like the one my little retarded friend was standing on this morning as stoic as an abandoned house awaiting demolition.

Philby now went in for the kill. Elliott had tipped him off that he would be cleared by Macmillan, but mere exoneration was not enough: he needed Lipton to retract his allegations, publicly, humiliatingly, and quickly. After a telephone consultation with Elliott, he instructed his mother to inform all callers that he would be holding a press conference in Dora’s Drayton Gardens flat the next morning. When Philby opened the door a few minutes before 11:00 a.m. on November 8, he was greeted with gratifying proof of his new celebrity. The stairwell was packed with journalists from the world’s press. “Jesus Christ!” he said. “Do come in.” Philby had prepared carefully. Freshly shaved and neatly barbered, he wore a well-cut pinstriped suit, a sober and authoritative tie, and his most charming smile. The journalists trooped into his mother’s sitting room, where they packed themselves around the walls. Camera flashes popped. In a conspicuous (and calculated) act of old-world gallantry, Philby asked a journalist sitting in an armchair if he would mind giving up his seat to a lady journalist forced to stand in the doorway. The man leaped to his feet. The television cameras rolled. What followed was a dramatic tour de force, a display of cool public dishonesty that few politicians or lawyers could match. There was no trace of a stammer, no hint of nerves or embarrassment. Philby looked the world in the eye with a steady gaze and lied his head off. Footage of Philby’s famous press conference is still used as a training tool by MI6, a master class in mendacity.

It always is complicated, from the inside. People on the outside looking in seem to think it’s simple to cut ties, walk away . . . but there are so many ropes holding a person down. Children. Extended family. Friends. Jobs. Money. Obligations. Guilt. And fear, so much fear. The most dangerous time in any woman’s life is when she’s separating from a partner, particularly an abusive one. Women instinctively know that, even if they’ve never seen the blood-drenched statistics. Sometimes it feels safer to endure the devil you know.

I would expect such behavior from the children,not from their mother." She tsked at him, not even a little daunted. "Aren't you the least bit curious?" "Certainly,but I can wait until-" "But I can't wait," she cut in passionately. "Come with me, Warren. I'll be careful with it. And if it's nothing more'n a simple gift, albeit a mysterious one, then I'll have the box wrapped up again perfectly, so no one will know we tampered with it." "You're serious about this?" he asked. "You're actually going to sneak downstairs in the middle of the night like an errant schoolgirl-" "No,no,we are, like two perfectly sensible adults making a reasonable effort to solve a mystery that has been around far too long." He chuckled at that point, used to his wife's strange logic, and used to her ignoring any of his attempts at sternness.But then that was the magic of Amy.She was unlike any other woman he'd ever known. He gave in gracefully with a smile. "Very well,fetch our robes and some shoes.I would imagine the fire has been banked in the parlor, so it will be a mite chilly." It wasn't that long before they were standing next to The Present, Warren merely curious, Amy finding it hard to contain her excitement, considering what she expected to find beneath the pretty cloth wrapping.The parlor wasn't chilly at all,since whoever had lef the room last had closed the doors to contain the earlier warmth, and Warren had closed them again before he lit several of the lamps. But the doors opened once more, giving Amy quite a start since she was just reaching for The Present when it happened, and Jeremy said as he entered the room, "Caught in the act,eh? Amy,for shame." Amy,noticeably embarrassed despite the fact that Jeremy wasn't just her cousin, but one of her closest friends, said stiffly, "And what,pray tell, are you doing down here at this hour?" He winked at her and said dryly, "Same thing you are, I would imagine." She chuckled then. "Scamp. Close the door while you're at it." He started to,but stepped out of the way instead as Reggie sauntered in, barefoot and still in the process of tying her bed robe. When everyone else there just stared at her, she huffed indignantly, "I did not come down here to open The Present-well, maybe I did, but I would have chickened out before actually doing so." "What a whopper, Reggie," Derek said as he came in right behind her. "Nice try, though. Mind if I borrow that lame excuse? Better than having none a'tall.

Teenagers without strong family ties can become so dependent on their peer group that they will do anything to be accepted by it. About twenty years ago in Tucson, Arizona, the entire senior class of a large high school knew for several months that an older dropout from the school, who had kept up a “friendship” with the younger students, had been killing their classmates, and burying their corpses in the desert. Yet none of them reported the crimes to the authorities, who discovered them by chance. The students, all nice middle-class suburban kids, claimed that they could not divulge the murders for fear of being cut by their friends.

Have you ever listened to a song from a long time ago; from your past; a song that was filled with so many memories tied to it, that you felt it so deeply- that it made you cry? And did you listen to it again, intentionally, for a second time? So you could travel back in time through that song; back when everything seemed so much simpler, basic, carefree? Those are the songs that are the soundtracks of our lives… the ones that bring back childhood memories, deep feelings, snapshots of our lives (or short videos), best friends, first loves, first heartbreaks… births, deaths. Our lives are like the record albums that we used to play just a few years ago; just yesterday. We played some of the songs over and over again- to the point of which we can sing along with every word as we play it. Other songs seem somewhat unfamiliar, as we rarely go back to listen to them; we skip over them or we barely listen to the start of it before we turn off the record player. But just like on a record album and just like in our memories, you can't cut a song out off an album... just like you can't cut out a memory. The songs and memories remain there, side by side; the good ones, the bad ones, the ones that thrill us and the ones that hurt. Those are the songs that our lives are composed of. Those are the songs that we chase back, back into our our own memories in our private and personal musical time machines.

So here I am, all alone on this earth, with no brother, neighbour, or friend, and no company but my own. The most sociable and loving of human beings has by common consent been banished by the rest of society. In the refinement of their hatred they have continued to seek the cruellest forms of torture for my sensitive soul, and they have brutally severed all the ties which bound me to them. I would have loved my fellow men in spite of themselves. Only by ceasing to be men have they succeeded in losing my affection for them. So now they are strangers, persons unknown who mean nothing to me since that is what they wanted. But what about me, cut off from them and from everything else, what am I? This is what remains for me to find out now.

I replied that since he was a friend of mine, I could not betray him. Then the court waxed wrath, and the judge talked a great deal about my duty to the state, and society, and other things I did not understand, and bade me tell where my friend had flown. By this time I was becoming wrathful myself, for I had explained my position. “But I choked my ire and held my peace, and the judge squalled that I had shown contempt for the court, and that I should be hurled into a dungeon to rot until I betrayed my friend. So then, seeing they were all mad, I drew my sword and cleft the judge’s skull; then I cut my way out of the court, and seeing the high constable’s stallion tied near by, I rode for the wharfs, where I thought to find a ship bound for foreign parts.

I twirled in front of the mirror slowly, wanting to see the full effect of my new dress front and back. It was a daring little thing made of black silk, its front held by thin strings tied behind my neck and completely backless.  I did another twirl, asking out loud, “Do you think this looks good on me?” I wanted my friends’ opinions before they left to have dinner with their families and I had to leave for my second date with my week-old boyfriend. “Everything looks good on you,” Alyx said, rolling her eyes. She was on the armchair in the corner, one leg tossed carelessly over the side. Slender with boyishly cut hair, she could always be counted on to say the truth, no matter how harsh it was. Even so, I still felt insecure. I always was when it came to the boy I loved. Glancing at the other girl who made up our close-knit trio, I asked Yanna, “What do you think?” “It’s what I always think,” Yanna said simply. Petite and curvy, she was lying on her stomach on the floor, flipping through the latest issue of Teen Vogue. Seeing that I was waiting for an explanation, she laughed and elaborated obediently, “You look drop dead gorgeous.”  The words should have comforted me, but it didn’t. I knew Yanna meant what she said, and not just because she happened to be the nicest and most polite person I knew. She was also hopeless when it came to lying, and that was probably why I felt worse now. Doubt had shadowed her gaze as she uttered the compliment, and the sight made it harder for me to stay deaf to the warning inside my head.

Family is not the only thing that matters. There are other things: Pachelbel’s Canon in D matters, and fresh-picked corn on the cob, and true friends, and the sound of the ocean, and the poems of William Carlos Williams, and the constellations in the sky, and random acts of kindness, and a garden on the day when all its flowers are at their peak. Fluffy pancakes matter and crisp clean sheets and the guitar riff in “Layla,” and the way clouds look when you are above them in an airplane. Preserving the coral reef matters, and the thirty-four paintings of Johannes Vermeer matter, and kissing matters. Whether or not you register for china, crystal, and silver does not matter. Whether or not you have a full set of Tiffany dessert forks on Thanksgiving does not matter. If you want to register for these things, by all means, go ahead. My Waterford pattern is Lismore, one of the oldest. I do remember one time when I had a harrowing day at the hospital, and Nick had a Rube Goldberg project due and needed my help, and Kevin was playing Quiet Riot at top decibel in his bedroom, and Margot was tying up the house phone, and you had been plunked by the babysitter in front of the TV for five hours, and I came home and took one of my Lismore goblets out of the cabinet. I wanted to smash it against the wall. But instead I filled it with cold white wine and for ten or so minutes I sat in the quiet of the formal living room all by myself and I drank the cold wine out of that beautiful glass crafted by some lovely Irishman, and I felt better. It was probably the wine, not the glass, but you get my meaning. I will remember the impressive heft of the glass in my hand, and the way the cut of the crystal caught the day’s last rays of sunlight, but I will not miss that glass the way I will miss the sound of the ocean, or the taste of fresh-picked corn.

I don’t believe in love that never ends,” said Aiden, his whisper clear and distinct. “I don’t believe in being true until death or finding the other half of your soul.” Harvard raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. Privately, he considered that it might be good that Aiden hadn’t delivered this speech to this guy he apparently liked so much—whom Aiden had never even mentioned to his best friend before now. This speech was not romantic. Once again, Harvard had to wonder if what he’d been assuming was Aiden’s romantic prowess had actually been many guys letting Aiden get away with murder because he was awfully cute. But Aiden sounded upset, and that spoke to an instinct in Harvard natural as breath. He put his arm around Aiden, and drew his best friend close against him, warm skin and soft hair and barely there shirt and all, and tried to make a sound that was more soothing than fraught. “I don’t believe in songs or promises. I don’t believe in hearts or flowers or lightning strikes.” Aiden snatched a breath as though it was his last before drowning. “I never believed in anything but you.” “Aiden,” said Harvard, bewildered and on the verge of distress. He felt as if there was something he wasn’t getting here. Even more urgently, he felt he should cut off Aiden. It had been a mistake to ask. This wasn’t meant for Harvard, but for someone else, and worse than anything, there was pain in Aiden’s voice. That must be stopped now. Aiden kissed him, startling and fierce, and said against Harvard’s mouth, “Shut up. Let me… let me.” Harvard nodded involuntarily, because of the way Aiden had asked, unable to deny Aiden even things Harvard should refuse to give. Aiden’s warm breath was running down into the small shivery space between the fabric of Harvard’s shirt and his skin. It was panic-inducing, feeling all the impulses of Harvard’s body and his heart like wires that were not only crossed but also impossibly tangled. Disentangling them felt potentially deadly. Everything inside him was in electric knots. “I’ll let you do anything you want,” Harvard told him, “but don’t—don’t—” Hurt yourself. Seeing Aiden sad was unbearable. Harvard didn’t know what to do to fix it. The kiss had turned the air between them into dry grass or kindling, a space where there might be smoke or fire at any moment. Aiden was focused on toying with the collar of Harvard’s shirt, Aiden’s brows drawn together in concentration. Aiden’s fingertips glancing against his skin burned. “You’re so warm,” Aiden said. “Nothing else ever was. I only knew goodness existed because you were the best. You’re the best of everything to me.” Harvard made a wretched sound, leaning in to press his forehead against Aiden’s. He’d known Aiden was lonely, that the long line of guys wasn’t just to have fun but tied up in the cold, huge manor where Aiden had spent his whole childhood, in Aiden’s father with his flat shark eyes and sharp shark smile, and in the long line of stepmothers who Aiden’s father chose because he had no use for people with hearts. Harvard had always known Aiden’s father wanted to crush the heart out of Aiden. He’d always worried Aiden’s father would succeed. Aiden said, his voice distant even though he was so close, “I always knew all of you was too much to ask for.” Harvard didn’t know what to say, so he obeyed a wild foolish impulse, turned his face the crucial fraction toward Aiden’s, and kissed him. Aiden sank into the kiss with a faint sweet noise, as though he’d finally heard Harvard’s wordless cry of distress and was answering it with belated reassurance: No, I’ll be all right. We’re not lost. The idea of anyone not loving Aiden back was unimaginable, but it had clearly happened. Harvard couldn’t think of how to say it, so he tried to make the kiss say it. I’m so sorry you were in pain. I never guessed. I’m sorry I can’t fix this, but I would if I could. He didn’t love you, but I do.

I have come, my lovely,” Roddy said with his usual sardonic grin as he swept her a deep bow, “in answer to your urgent summons-and, I might add,-“ he continued, “before I presented myself at the Willingtons’, exactly as your message instructed.” At 5’10”, Roddy Carstairs was a slender man of athletic build with thinning brown hair and light blue eyes. In fact, his only distinguishing characteristics were his fastidiously tailored clothes, a much-envied ability to tie a neckcloth into magnificently intricate folds that never drooped, and an acid wit that accepted no boundaries when he chose a human target. “Did you hear about Kensington?” “Who?” Alex said absently, trying to think of the best means to persuade him to do what she needed done. “The new Marquess of Kensington, once known as Mr. Ian Thornton, persona non grata. Amazing, is it not, what wealth and title will do?” he continued, studying Alex’s tense face as he continued, “Two years ago we wouldn’t have let him past the front door. Six months ago word got out that he’s worth a fortune, and we started inviting him to our parties. Tonight he’s the heir to a dukedom, and we’ll be coveting invitations to his parties. We are”-Roddy grinned-“when you consider matters from this point of view, a rather sickening and fickle lot.” In spite of herself, Alexandra laughed. “Oh, Roddy,” she said, pressing a kiss on his cheek. “You always make me laugh, even when I’m in the most dreadful coil, which I am now. You could make things so very much better-if you would.” Roddy helped himself to a pinch of snuff, lifted his arrogant brows, and waited, his look both suspicious and intrigued. “I am, of course, your most obedient servant,” he drawled with a little mocking bow. Despite that claim, Alexandra knew better. While other men might be feared for their tempers or their skill with rapier and pistol, Roddy Carstairs was feared for his cutting barbs and razor tongue. And, while one could not carry a rapier or a pistol into a ball, Roddy could do his damage there unimpeded. Even sophisticated matrons lived in fear of being on the wrong side of him. Alex knew exactly how deadly he could be-and how helpful, for he had made her life a living hell when she came to London the first time. Later he had done a complete turnabout, and it had been Roddy who had forced the ton to accept her. He had done it not out of friendship or guilt; he had done it because he’d decided it would be amusing to test his power by building a reputation for a change, instead of shredding it. “There is a young woman whose name I’ll reveal in a moment,” Alex began cautiously, “to whom you could be of great service. You could, in fact, rescue her as you did me long ago, Roddy, if only you would.” “Once was enough,” he mocked. “I could hardly hold my head up for shame when I thought of my unprecedented gallantry.” “She’s incredibly beautiful,” Alex said. A mild spark of interest showed in Roddy’s eyes, but nothing stronger. While other men might be affected by feminine beauty, Roddy generally took pleasure in pointing out one’s faults for the glee of it. He enjoyed flustering women and never hesitated to do it. But when he decided to be kind he was the most loyal of friends.

The Americans had been prepared to make friends with the Shah; now they were trying to cement ties with the regime of the Ayatollah Khomeini. Substantial military and economic support was given to an unsavoury group of characters in Afghanistan solely on the basis of long-standing US rivalry with the USSR. Saddam himself had been brought in from the cold when it suited policymakers in Washington –but then sacrificed when it no longer suited them. Putting American interests first was not in itself the problem; the issue was that conducting imperial-style foreign policy requires a more careful touch –as well as more thorough thinking about the long-term consequences. In each case, in the late twentieth-century struggle for control of the countries of the Silk Roads, the US was cutting deals and making agreements on the hoof, solving today’s problems without worrying about tomorrow’s –and in some cases laying the basis for much more difficult issues. The goal of driving the Soviets out of Afghanistan had been achieved; but little thought had been given to what might happen next.

If you have a bad friend, tell them off. The longer you have to do it, the brighter the truth that they aren't a great friend shines. Don't be afraid to cut ties with someone who is hurting you. It won't be the end of the world, just the end of a toxic relationship.

On our return from the bush, we went straight back to work at the zoo. A huge tree behind the Irwin family home had been hit by lightning some years previously, and a tangle of dead limbs was in danger of crashing down on the house. Steve thought it would be best to take the dead tree down. I tried to lend a hand. Steve’s mother could not watch as he scrambled up the tree. He had no harness, just his hat and a chainsaw. The tree was sixty feet tall. Steve looked like a little dot way up in the air, swinging through the tree limbs with an orangutan’s ease, working the chainsaw. Then it was my turn. After he pruned off all the limbs, the last task was to fell the massive trunk. Steve climbed down, secured a rope two-thirds of the way up the tree, and tied the other end to the bull bar of his Ute. My job was to drive the Ute. “You’re going to have to pull it down in just the right direction,” he said, chopping the air with his palm. He studied the angle of the tree and where it might fall. Steve cut the base of the tree. As the chainsaw snarled, Steve yelled, “Now!” I put the truck in reverse, slipped the clutch, and went backward at a forty-five-degree angle as hard as I could. With a groan and a tremendous crash, the tree hit the ground. We celebrated, whooping and hollering. Steve cut the downed timber into lengths and I stacked it. The whole project took us all day. By late in the afternoon, my back ached from stacking tree limbs and logs. As the long shadows crossed the yard, Steve said four words very uncharacteristic of him: “Let’s take a break.” I wondered what was up. We sat under a big fig tree in the yard with a cool drink. We were both covered in little flecks of wood, leaves, and bark. Steve’s hair was unkempt, a couple of his shirt buttons were missing, and his shorts were torn. I thought he was the best-looking man I had ever seen in my life. “I am not even going to walk for the next three days,” I said, laughing. Steve turned to me. He was quiet for a moment. “So, do you want to get married?” Casual, matter-of-fact. I nearly dropped the glass I was holding. I had twigs in my hair an dirt caked on the side of my face. I’d taken off my hat, and I could feel my hair sticking to the sides of my head. My first thought was what a mess I must look. My second, third, and fourth thoughts were lists of every excuse in the world why I couldn’t marry Steve Irwin. I could not possibly leave my job, my house, my wildlife work, my family, my friends, my pets--everything I had worked so hard for back in Oregon. He never looked concerned. He simply held my gaze. As all these things flashed through my mind, a little voice from somewhere above me spoke. “Yes, I’d love to.” With those four words my life changed forever.

Page 138: The second consequence [of measures to reduce Chinese economic dominance] is a development of closer ties with the élite members of Thai society. The larger Chinese business men, in order to protect their extensive interests from economic controls and eventually nationalization, have formed financial alliances with leading Thai politicians and military men, who are simply made directors of Chinese companies at a handsome remuneration. A person with substantial financial interests in a business is not likely to destroy it. By the end of 1952, it is estimated that ‘hundreds of government officials and other members of the Thai élite were either fully “cut in” on Chinese businesses or serving on the boards of Chinese firms in a “protective” capacity [and] a majority of the most influential Chinese leaders had formal business connections with government officials and other members of the new Thai élite’ (Skinner 1958:187). There is little evidence that these Thai were more than paper directors, and individuals kept their positions only so long as they remained politically powerful and thus useful to their Chinese friends, but on the higher levels both groups found good reasons to work together. This development stands in rather marked contrast to the apparent conflict of economic interests one finds at the lower economic levels.

I'm terrified you're not going to make it to graduation, Vi.' His shoulders slump. 'You know exactly how I feel about you, whether or not I can do anything about it, and I'm terrified.' It's that last line that does me in. Laughter bubbles up through my throat and escapes. His eyes widen. 'This place cuts away the bullshit and the niceties, revealing whoever you are at your core.' I repeat his words from this summer. 'Isn't that what you said to me? Is this who you really are at your core? Someone so enamoured with rules that he doesn't know when to bend or break them for someone he cares about? Someone so focused on the least I'm capable of doing, he can't believe I can do so much more?' The warmth drains from his brown eyes. 'Let's get one thing straight, Dain.' I take a step closer, but the distance between us only widens.' The reason we'll never be anything more than friends isn't because of your rules. It's because you have no faith in me. Even now, when I've survived against all odds and bonded not just one dragon but two, you still think I won't make it. So forgive me, but you're about to be some of the bullshit that this place cuts away from me.

The First Swing, slicing through the air with effortless aplomb. The moment you take your first swing you wield your axe like you are a master in the art of gleaning. Those before you are in awe. They cannot imagine what your next move will be. You carry yourself as balanced and poised as a performer dancing brutally among them. The searing star of stars, your robe cascading to the earth in showers of gold. But that is not the truth. Your worth does not matter to those who now matter to you. You are truly nothing but a tiny sunspot to the eyes of others like yourself. An insignificant fleck. And as you take that first swing, they laugh at you. You try to rise above their derision, to be noticed in some small way. To find favor from the old ones, who are never old. To gain respect from the young ones, who have slain their own youth. To justify the arrogance that comes with the pride of being chosen. But that is not the truth either. It will be years until you come to know the truth: That those you revere are merely servants to the collective that we prune. It was their choice to let us choose all those years ago. The awed, terrified, relieved spectators; the real ones in power, the puppeteers of your actions. Standing in a perfect line before them, a cutting edge, wielding our axes, each one of us is the same as the last. We are one in all, We are all in one, and We. Shall. Kill. Our mantra, our commandment, our duty, to remind the immortal of mortality. To teach them that eternal repose may be distant, but not lost. Who are We? We are Scythes. And the weapons we wield are not by any means our friends. The devastating force of bullet, blade, and bludgeon tears us apart each day, every day, piece by piece, and leaves us with wounds that will never heal. This is what ties us to the masses, yet restrains us from being one with them. And with each new gleaning we bleed and break anew, yet our resolve never changes. For We are Scythes. Nothing will ever change that. And when it is your time to bleed, you will know and you will learn.

That self-confidence only blossomed into full-blown delusion as I got older. Eventually, the braids were replaced by a bob cut with bangs that had the presence Tina Yothers’s bangs did at her peak during Family Ties. Wait till these white boys at my new school get a whiff of me, I’d tell myself as I got dressed in the morning. Oh, they definitely did. And if Calvin Klein were to bottle that odor, it would have been called: Eau de Weary Grandmother at Post Office Who Hums a Negro Spiritual Parfum. Rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it? To make matters worse, I often paired my asexual hairdo with lived-in black dress shoes, pleated khakis, and a primary-colored turtleneck from Eddie Bauer. At best, this outfit could be described as “Jehovah Witness Chic,” and at worst, “recent Heaven’s Gate defector.” This, my friends, was the milk shake that did not bring all the boys to the yard. It was the milk shake that made them go, “You know, I’m really not into dairy right now.

As things stood right now, I would not miss my old life very much; my sister, Deborah, was apparently through with me forever, my home life had become an annoying millstone around my neck, and my job was no more than rote performance of repetitive tasks. I didn’t really have any actual friends—other than my boat, there was nothing to tie me to my life in Miami. Of course, there was the Nighttime Me, the Devil Dexter who delivered the Wicked to their just deserts with a sharp blade and a hearty smile. But that other me was portable, too, and from what I had heard about the movie business, I was quite sure there were plenty of deserving Playmates in L.A.—or, for that matter, anywhere I might go. Human nature being what it is, I could be certain to find quality entertainment everywhere on this tired old globe.

Two Valentines are actually described in the early church, but they likely refer to the same man — a priest in Rome during the reign of Emperor Claudius II. According to tradition, Valentine, having been imprisoned and beaten, was beheaded on February 14, about 270, along the Flaminian Way. Sound romantic to you? How then did his martyrdom become a day for lovers and flowers, candy and little poems reading Roses are red… ? According to legends handed down, Valentine undercut an edict of Emperor Claudius. Wanting to more easily recruit soldiers for his army, Claudius had tried to weaken family ties by forbidding marriage. Valentine, ignoring the order, secretly married young couples in the underground church. These activities, when uncovered, led to his arrest. Furthermore, Valentine had a romantic interest of his own. While in prison he became friends with the jailer’s daughter, and being deprived of books he amused himself by cutting shapes in paper and writing notes to her. His last note arrived on the morning of his death and ended with the words “Your Valentine.” In 496 February 14 was named in his honor. By this time Christianity had long been legalized in the empire, and many pagan celebrations were being “christianized.” One of them, a Roman festival named Lupercalia, was a celebration of love and fertility in which young men put names of girls in a box, drew them out, and celebrated lovemaking. This holiday was replaced by St. Valentine’s Day with its more innocent customs of sending notes and sharing expressions of affection. Does any real truth lie behind the stories of St. Valentine? Probably. He likely conducted underground weddings and sent notes to the jailer’s daughter. He might have even signed them “Your Valentine.” And he probably died for his faith in Christ.

Delilah wondered if she would ever get the money the rulers had offered. The more she thought about it the unhappier she became. Day after day she pleaded with Samson to tell her the secret of his strength. She said, “How can you say you love me when you won’t even tell me your secret?” Samson finally became so tired of Delilah’s coaxing and pleading that he said, “Because I am a Nazarite my hair has never been cut. If it were, the strength of the Lord would leave me, and I would be like other men.” This time Delilah knew Samson had told her the truth. She sent word to the rulers. They came with the money and hid as before. While Samson was asleep, a man cut his hair. Then Delilah called, “Samson, the Philistines are here.” Samson opened his eyes and saw the Philistine rulers in the room. He tried to get away, but he could not. The strength of the Lord had left him. Samson Dies Judges 16:21-31 How glad the Philistines were to have Samson in their power and know he could not hurt them. They tied him up and took him to Gaza. Before placing him in prison, they put out his eyes. In prison it was Samson’s job to grind the grain. They chained him and made him turn a heavy millstone to make the flour. Day after day he worked in prison. And with each passing day, his hair grew longer. Poor Samson! He had made a bad mistake. Delilah had not been his friend. He should never have told her the secret of his great strength. Now he was blind and would have to suffer for the rest of his life. About this time the Philistine rulers gave a great feast in honor of their god Dagon. They wanted to thank their god for giving them power over Samson. All the Philistines rejoiced and made merry. During the feast the people said, “Bring Samson so he can amuse us.” A boy led in the once-great Samson. When the people saw him blinded and in chains, they made fun of him. They thought he could no longer harm them. Samson knew the temple was crowded with people. On the flat roof there were three thousand people. Samson told the boy who led him, “Take me where I can lean against the pillars of the building.” As the people made fun, Samson prayed, “O Lord God, remember me and strengthen me this once, for the Philistines have put out my eyes.” Standing between the two main pillars of the house, Samson put an arm around each pillar and pulled with all his might. The house fell down and everyone was killed.

So I want to be clear: Andy Card and I have known each other since the 1980s, though age separated us, and most of my time was spent with his younger brother. What’s more, Andy’s a good political player. Come election time, what with my mother’s growing media empire in the wilds of Alaska—and her ties to the good and honorable Senator Stevens—it just made sense that Andy Card would make a special nod to our family in Alaska. Perceptions to the contrary would be grossly inaccurate. After I warned about the 1993 World Trade Center attack, and started working as an Asset, I had to distance myself from Andy, who had national political aspirations after all. Our need for distance ended overnight when President-elect George Bush, Jr. named Andy to serve as White House Chief of Staff. At that point, my background was fully revealed, all cards on the table, when I approached him in December, 2000 about our back channel talks to resume the weapons inspections in Iraq. I expected Andy to be surprised. But I was at the top of my game. I had accomplished many good things involving Libya and Iraq, with special regards to anti-terrorism, through a decade of perseverance and creative strategizing. I expected a man like Andy Card to be proud of my actions. A man who brags to his friends about his outstanding devotion to my field of work should be fiercely proud that one of his own family has been on the cutting edge of it for a decade. When you do the work I have done, you don’t apologize for communicating with the Chief of Staff to the President of the United States of America. At the end of the conversation, you expect him to say thank you. Think about it. I was a primary source of raw intelligence on Iraq and Middle Eastern anti-terrorism overall. I enjoyed high level access to officials in Baghdad and Libya. It was extremely valuable for the White House Chief of Staff to have first-hand access to major new developments inside Iraq. Given my status as an Asset—and his— it was entirely appropriate for him to receive these debriefings. That was part of his job. No doubt that’s why Andy Card never suggested I should break off communications with Iraq— or that I should stop providing him with my insider’s analysis of breaking developments in Baghdad. All of which makes our end so galling.

Andy returned a few days later with Ubaid in tow, kicking and cursing. Both Ramiz and Andy had to strong arm him to get him to return home. Of course, the Hadrah gave him a good scolding and grounded him for the rest of his time in Dubai. Our friend couldn’t bear living under his father's iron fist. Hakim had round-the-clock bodyguards watching his son, making sure he would not repeat his disappearing trick. Our poor lovesick friend was back to his old tricks, smoking and drinking heavily. Ramiz, Andy and I tried our best to console him and cheer his tortured soul, but depression had him in its grip. The week and a half in the Kosk, before he returned to Trinity College, was hell for him. He was not allowed to communicate with Gianna – his father commanded he cut off all ties with her. The more the Hadrah clamped down, the more Ubaid wanted to escape to see his beloved.

Color these fish. Cut them out. Punch a hole in the top of each fish. Put a ribbon through all the holes. Tie these fish together. Now read what is written on these fish: Jesus is a friend. Jesus gathers friends. I am a friend of Jesus.

He’d be glad you were there, standing in for him.” “I was just telling him about it and I thought, shit, I don’t even know how much of him is in there.” “None,” Jack said. “He’s moved on.” Paul hit his chest with a fist. “I still have him here.” “Of course. Everyone who loved him has him there. I think that’s the point.” “I shouldn’t have been the one tonight. It should’ve been him. She misses him so much.” “Look, we all have different paths, Paul. His led him there, yours led you here.” Paul sniffed and wiped at his face. “The house is about done,” he said. “Vanni will be up and around in no time and I can’t hang around here anymore. I have to get back. To Grants Pass.” “Yeah,” Jack said. “But you’ll be back pretty soon. You have strong ties here.” “I don’t know about that….” “Give her time, Paul. It’s still a little raw, but that’s going to change.” “What are you talking about?” he asked, looking at him in the dark. “Oh, Jesus, I wondered. You don’t remember. You got a little drunk and—No, you got a lot drunk and kind of let it slip about how you saw her first.” “No. I couldn’t have.” “Take it easy. Just to me. You had the discretion to pass out before you told anyone else. So listen to me for once, okay? Because this is important. You already know this, but right now you think you’re the only man who’s ever been in this position. I married a widow. Remember? It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t quick—getting over that long, ugly hump of wondering where I fit in. It was goddamn humbling, if you want the truth. But, Paul, it was worth every sleepless night I invested. It’s just that it takes whatever time it takes.” Paul thought a minute. He fixed his lips tight, as if he were struggling. “I have to get back to Grants Pass.” “But you come back here before long,” Jack said. “Come back regular. I’m telling you, if you don’t, you’ll regret it.” “But I can’t stay much longer, Jack. It’s eating me up. I gotta get out of here. He was my best friend, and he’s dead, and I helped his baby into the world, and—” “And you want his woman. I know this is a rough patch, Paul, but if you’re the kind of guy who cuts and runs, oh man, you’re going to hate yourself.” Paul hung his head. “Come on,” Jack said. “People want to say good-night. They want to pat you on the back one more time.” “Can’t you just leave me out here?” “Nah,” he said, turning Paul away from the grave with a hand behind his neck. “The general wants to tell you—Matt picked a name. They’ve made a few adjustments on account of his death—adjustments that were Vanessa’s idea. Matt wanted to name him Paul. But they’ve settled on Matthew Paul. I think you should drink to it. And think to it.

I dropped to my knees next to Nakari, eyes welling up already, and in a strange way I welcomed the blur to my vision and let the tears come; I’d never done so before because it had never seemed the proper time to mourn. Ben had been there when I discovered the burnt bodies of my aunt and uncle and I’d bottled everything up in shock, telling myself that the Empire was hunting us and we had to get to Alderaan. When Vader cut down Ben, there was no time to mourn him, either, only time to escape the Death Star and then join the Battle of Yavin. I lost my old friend Biggs to a TIE fighter during that battle, but I could hardly allow myself to think of that when I had to make my firing run down the trench. Then, incredibly, we won the day and everyone was happy, and there was always more work to do after that. It was never the right time to stop and feel all that I’d lost.

British sociologist Anthony Giddens observed that part of the strain of modernity results from our becoming “disembedded” from the traditional institutions of church, neighborhood, marriage, community, and gender. In its stead has been left an intensely personal, day-to-day, moment-to-moment appraisal of the self: its moods, desires, thoughts, and aspirations. This self-appraising project requires constant monitoring. How much or how little to engage with others—with friends, with romantic partners? Do they satisfy our ambition of self-actualization? “Personal growth,” writes Giddens in Modernity and Self-Identity: Self and Society in the Late Modern Age, “depends on conquering emotional blocks and tensions that prevent us from understanding ourselves as we really are.” Social psychologist Eli Finkel’s observation of what is required for a successful marriage today also mirrors Giddens’s observation: “Success typically requires not only compatibility but also deep insight into each other’s core essence, the sort of insight that helps us know what type of support is most beneficial under which circumstances.” I say, ditto parenting adult children.

Many draw unforgiving boundaries against their family members and friends who cannot transform their selves—overcome addictions, save money, heal troubled relationships—through sheer determination alone,” writes Silva in her book Coming Up Short: Working-Class Identity in an Age of Uncertainty. “[A]t the center of the therapeutic coming of age narrative are not more traditional sources of identity such as work, religion, or gender, but instead the family—as the source of one’s individuality, the source of the self, and the source of the neuroses from which one must liberate oneself.

Ulay’s Polaroids of that period often showed him piercing his own flesh in various bloody ways. In one work, he tattooed one of his aphorisms on his arm: ULTIMA RATIO (meaning final argument or last resort, referring to force). Then he cut a square hunk of flesh containing the tattoo out of his arm, slicing so deeply that the muscle and tendon were visible. He framed and preserved the tattooed flesh in formaldehyde. For another image, he held a bloodstained paper towel over a self-inflicted razor wound in his belly. A series of shots showed him slicing his fingertips with a box cutter and painting the white tiles of a bathroom with his own blood. (...)somebody gave Ulay a Newton’s cradle. He was fascinated by the back-and-forth swinging of the shiny metal balls, the little clack they made when they collided, the perfect transfer of energy. “What if we did that?” he said. I immediately understood what he was talking about: a performance where the two of us would collide and bounce off each other. We were naked, standing twenty meters apart. We were in a warehouse on the island of Giudecca, just across the lagoon from Venice. A couple hundred people were watching. Slowly at first, Ulay and I began to run toward each other. The first time, we just brushed past each other as we met; on each successive run, though, we moved faster and faster and made harder contact—until finally Ulay was crashing into me. Once or twice he knocked me over. We had placed microphones near the collision point, to pick up the sounds of flesh slapping flesh. (...) then [Ulay] took out a heavy needle, the kind used to sew leather, attached to some thick white thread, and he sewed his lips shut. This didn’t happen quickly. First he had to penetrate the skin below his lower lip—not easy—and then the skin above his upper lip. Also not easy. Then he pulled the thread tight and tied a knot. And then he and I changed places: Ulay sat down among the audience, and I sat in the chair he had just occupied. “Now,” I told our friends, “you will ask me questions and I will answer as Ulay.

Often we take friendships for granted even when they are the interactions where we experience mutual pleasure. We place them in a secondary position, especially in relation to romantic bonds. This devaluation of our friendships creates an emptiness we may not see when we are devoting all our attention to finding someone to love romantically or giving all our attention to a chosen loved one. Committed love relationships are far more likely to become codependent when we cut off all our ties with friends to give these bonds we consider primary our exclusive attention.

The group members [parents] display an excessively zealous, unquestioning commitment to an individual [their child]. • The group members [parents] are preoccupied with bringing in new members. • The group members [parents] are preoccupied with making money. • The leadership [child] induces guilt feelings in members [parents] in order to control them. •  Members’ [parents’] subservience to the group [children] causes them to cut ties with family and friends, and to give up personal goals and activities that were of interest before joining the group. • Members [parents] are expected to devote inordinate amounts of time to the group [children]. •  Members [parents] are encouraged or required to live [in the suburbs] and/or socialize [playdates] only with other group members [parents].

age of computers and programming, and he couldn’t understand either. Sure, he could send emails, had even mastered Word and Excel, but apart from that, the complexities of the machine left him baffled. There was unemployment, but he had never taken the dole, or he could go overseas, try his luck on an oil rig. Even if that were possible, he didn’t want to go, but these were desperate times, and now, to add confusion, there was a solution. Betty Galton, his former sister-in-law, had in her possession a million pounds in gold. He opened his laptop and switched it on. How does one melt gold? How does one dispose of it? he thought. He entered the search terms, fingering one key at a time, and pressed enter. If a criminal act was committed during the planning stage, then he was guilty as charged. And for once, he did not care. He hummed a tune to himself. It had been some time since he had been contented. For that night, he would forget what would be required and envisage what his life could be like with money in his pocket. Maybe a small place in the country, a dog, possibly a woman. How long had it been since he had enjoyed the closeness of another’s skin? He picked up his phone and made a call. It was a special treat for himself and for once the budget was going to be blown. He knew she’d look after him, the way she looked after so many others. Chapter 11 Clare woke early the next day; her phone was ringing. She leant over and picked it up. ‘Yarwood, I’m at the hospital,’ Tremayne said. She could tell by his voice that something was amiss. ‘I’ll be there in fifteen.’ ‘Thanks, and don’t tell anyone.’ A quick shower, some food for her cat, and Clare was out of her cottage. A murder enquiry was serious; her boss being ill, more so. Parking at the hospital, she soon found her way to outpatients, meeting someone she knew. ‘It’s Tremayne, he’s not well,’ Clare said. ‘And please, not a word to anyone.’ The woman, a friend, understood. Inside, behind some screens, Tremayne was lying flat on his back. His shoes had been removed, and his tie had been loosened. ‘How long have you been here?’ Clare said. She knew Tremayne would not appreciate lashings of sympathy, although he looked dreadful. ‘Since last night. I’d had a few drinks, a few cigarettes, and all of a sudden I’m in the back of an ambulance.’ ‘Does Jean know?’ ‘Not yet. Maybe you can phone her. She went to see her son for a few days, left me on my own.’ ‘Off the leash and into trouble, that’s you, guv.’ ‘Not today, Yarwood. Maybe Moulton’s right about me retiring.’ ‘Having you feeling sorry for yourself isn’t going to help, is it?’ The nurse, standing on the other side of the bed, looked over at Clare disapprovingly. ‘It’s how we work,’ Clare said. ‘That may be the case, but Mr Tremayne has had a bit of a scare. He needs to be here for a few days while we conduct a few checks.’ ‘What’s the problem?’ ‘It’s not for me to say. That’s for the doctor.’ ‘He told me to cut down on the beer, quit smoking, and take it easy.’ ‘Retire, is that it?’ Clare said. ‘They don’t get it, do they?’ Tremayne looked over at the nurse who was monitoring his condition. ‘Sorry. We’ve got a murder to deal with, nothing personal.’ ‘Don’t worry about me. We get our fair share of people, men mainly, who think they’re invincible. You’re not the first, not the last, who thinks they know more

Cover the war, what a gig to frame for yourself, going out after one kind of information and getting another, totally other, to lock your eyes open, drop your blood temperature down under the 0, dry your mouth out so a full swig of water disappeared in there before you could swallow, turn your breath fouler than corpse gas. There were times when your fear would take directions so wild that you had to stop and watch the spin. Forget the Cong, the trees would kill you, the elephant grass grew up homicidal, the ground you were walking over possessed malignant intelligence, your whole environment was a bath. Even so, considering where you were and what was happening to so many people, it was a privilege just to be able to feel afraid. So you learned about fear, it was hard to know what you really learned about courage. How many times did somebody have to run in front of a machine gun before it became an act of cowardice? What about those acts that didn’t require courage to perform, but made you a coward if you didn’t? It was hard to know at the moment, easy to make a mistake when it came, like the mistake of thinking that all you needed to perform a witness act were your eyes. A lot of what people called courage was only undifferentiated energy cut loose by the intensity of the moment, mind loss that sent the actor on an incredible run; if he survived it he had the chance later to decide whether he’d really been brave or just overcome with life, even ecstasy. A lot of people found the guts to just call it all off and refuse to ever go out anymore, they turned and submitted to the penalty end of the system or they just split. A lot of reporters, too, I had friends in the press corps who went out once or twice and then never again. Sometimes I thought that they were the sanest, most serious people of all, although to be honest I never said so until my time there was almost over. “We had this gook and we was gonna skin him” (a grunt told me), “I mean he was already dead and everything, and the lieutenant comes over and says, ‘Hey asshole, there’s a reporter in the TOC, you want him to come out and see that? I mean, use your fucking heads, there’s a time and place for everything.…” “Too bad you wasn’t with us last week” (another grunt told me, coming off a no-contact operation), “we killed so many gooks it wasn’t even funny.” Was it possible that they were there and not haunted? No, not possible, not a chance, I know I wasn’t the only one. Where are they now? (Where am I now?) I stood as close to them as I could without actually being one of them, and then I stood as far back as I could without leaving the planet. Disgust doesn’t begin to describe what they made me feel, they threw people out of helicopters, tied people up and put the dogs on them. Brutality was just a word in my mouth before that. But disgust was only one color in the whole mandala, gentleness and pity were other colors, there wasn’t a color left out. I think that those people who used to say that they only wept for the Vietnamese never really wept for anyone at all if they couldn’t squeeze out at least one for these men and boys when they died or had their lives cracked open for them. But of course we were intimate, I’ll tell you how intimate: they were my guns, and I let them do it.

So . . . That’ll be it for evil spy school? We’ll never see each other again?” “Not necessarily. You could come to Disney World with me.” Ashley blushed suddenly upon saying this, then turned away. “Not like a boyfriend/girlfriend thing. I just had fun with you today . . . and Disney’s probably not that great alone. Seeing as we’ve cut ties with all our old friends, I figured, as long as we’re lying low, we might as well do it together, right?” “Nefarious too?” Ashley made a face. “King of the Misfits? Nefarious isn’t exactly Mr. Fun. He’d spend all day playing video games if he didn’t have to eat or poop.

So I got me some steak, and I got me the spring out of a clock. I cut that spring up into little pieces. I put points on the ends of the pieces. They were as sharp as razor blades. I stuck them into the steak- way inside. And I went past where they had the dog tied up. He wanted to bite me again. I said to him, ‘Come on doggie- let’s be friends. Let’s not be enemies any more. I’m not mad.’ He believed me.’ ‘He did?’ ‘I threw him the steak. He swallowed it down in one big gulp. I waited around for ten minutes.’ Now Lazzaro’s eyes twinkled. ‘Blood started coming out of his mouth. He started crying, and rolled on the ground, as though the knives were on the outside of him instead of the inside of him. Then he tried to bite out his own insides. I laughed, and said to him, ‘You got the right idea now. Tear your own guts out, boy. That’s me with all of those knives’ So it goes.

Associate with companions who are in harmony with the Dharma and who don't promote disturbing emotions. Keeping company with unwholesome friends, you cannot possibly avoid being influenced by their evil ways. That is the root of going astray […] Tsogyal, if you want to avoid this way of going astray, cut your ties to superfluous companions and remain in solitude!

The big decline started in 1990 when the Soviet Union was breaking apart and Moscow dropped its “friendly rates” for exports to North Korea. Without subsidized fuel and other commodities, the economy creaked to a halt. There was no way for the government to keep the domestic fertilizer factories running, and no fuel for trucks to deliver imported fertilizer to farms. Crop yields dropped sharply. At the same time, Russia almost completely cut off food aid. China helped out for a few years, but it was also going through big changes and increasing its economic ties with capitalist countries—like South Korea and the United States—so it, too, cut off some of its subsidies and started demanding hard currency for exports. North Korea had already defaulted on its bank loans, so it couldn’t borrow a penny. By the time Kim Il Sung died in 1994, famine was already taking hold in the northern provinces. Government rations had been cut sharply, and sometimes they failed to arrive at all. Instead of changing its policies and reforming its programs, North Korea responded by ignoring the crisis.

Today I sat next to a man who immediately informed me he was on his way to Europe to work with the Christian embassy, spreading the good will of the Lord. Before the plane was off the ground, he asked me if I had a girlfriend. I took this line of inquiry to mean that he thought I was a clean-cut young man, and therefore possessed a soul worth saving. I told him the truth; I did have a girlfriend, and no, we were not married yet, and yes, we were indeed living together and yes, I was aware that we were living in sin. I smiled inside at the time as just how much sin he didn’t realize we were actually living in, and pondered telling him I was not as nice, young, or male as he appeared to think I was. Then I realized how much fun it was to listen to a fundamentalist Christian lecture me on how God wanted me to marry my girlfriend, how the family unit in this country was depending on me, and how not fun it might immediately become if he were to find out he was brushing thighs with a full-blown sodomite disguised as a harmless wayward Catholic boy in a crisp shirt and tie. I knew there was as much chance of me changing his mind about anything as there was that he would ever lead me back to the path of righteousness, so I told him he was right, and that I was going to propose to my girlfriend as soon as I had enough money saved up to buy her a decent conflict-free diamond ring. He took this to mean that he had helped me see the light, and continued the Lord’s work all the way up to Toronto. When the plane finally landed, he shook my hand and told me that I seemed like a good person, and that if I were ever in Guelph, I should look up his son, who had strayed from God’s path a little and had pierced his eyebrow, and was pursuing an art degree. “I’d like him to meet some friends with ambition. People who realize their appearances matter. I pray that he grows up to be just like you. “I hope God answers that prayer,” I told him. “I really do.

Want to come over this weekend?’ I asked. ‘I can’t,’ she said. I didn’t like the way she didn’t look up from her phone while she talked. I was sure she was sending messages to Tracey, who, no doubt, was sending similar communiques right back. ‘Why are you being like this?’ I said. ‘What do you mean?’ she said. She smiled a little and bit her lower lip. Her long blond braid dangled on her shoulder. She wouldn’t look me in the eye. ‘I’m not doing anything.’ Something about the coyness in her face felt familiar. In that moment I recalled a pale redhead named Alison who had been Hanna’s best friend before me. This was years earlier, fourth grade, but I remembered the way Alison used to float toward us on the playground sometimes, how Hanna would ignore her while we practiced our tricks on the bars where there was room for only two. ‘I’m so sick of her,’ Hanna would say to me whenever she saw Alison approaching, and then she would look at Alison with the same fake smile that she was now using on me.

cutting ties, turning away, or becoming offended when people choose to believe or live in a manner contrary to Scripture is not a Christian response. We are called to love our fellow believers (John 13:34-35), our neighbors (Mark 12:31), and even our enemies (Matthew 5:44). Surely this list encompasses those who have embraced a gay identity. By this point in the book I hope you have begun to see that as a rule those who experience SSA are not enemies but at least neighbors if not fellow believers.

It is important not to latch onto some strategic fad to justify radical cuts in the U.S. Army or Marine Corps. For two decades, since Operation Desert Storm, some have favored “stand-off” warfare, featuring long-range strike from planes and ships as the American military’s main approach to future combat. But it is not possible to address many of the world’s key security challenges that way including scenarios in places like Korea and South Asia, discussed further below, that could in fact imperil American security. In the 1990s, advocates of military revolution often argued for such an approach to war, but the subsequent decade proved that for all the progress in sensors and munitions and other military capabilities, the United States still needed forces on the ground to deal with complex insurgencies and other threats. A military emphasis on stand-off warfare is some- times linked with a broader grand strategy of “offshore balancing” by which the distant United States would step in with limited amounts of power to shape overseas events, particularly in Eurasia, rather than getting involved directly with its own soldiers and Marines. But offshore balancing is too clever by half. In fact, overseas developments are not so easily nudged in favorable directions through modest outside interventions. One of the reasons is that off- shore balancing can suggest, in the minds of friends and foes alike, a lack of real American commitment. That can embolden adversaries. It can also worry allies to the point where, among other things, they may feel obliged to build up their own nuclear arsenals as the likes of South Korea, Japan, Taiwan, Turkey, Egypt, and Saudi Arabia might well do absent strong security ties with America. Put bluntly, offshore balancing greatly exaggerates American power by assuming that belated and limited uses of U.S. force can swing overseas events in acceptable directions.

Chiara,” Darren finally says. “Everything okay?” Greasy Guy looks Darren up and down with narrowed eyes and spits out what I’m guessing is a question. Darren responds, calmly, in Italian. It’s the most I’ve ever heard him say in Italian, and I can’t even tell if his accent’s right, but it’s seriously hot. They go back and forth a few times, Chiara chiming in once in a while. I pick out a word here and there, but I mostly make up what I think they could be talking about. My version sounds like this: Greasy Guy: “Who the bleep are you?” Darren: “A friend of Chiara’s.” Greasy Guy: “What kind of friend?” This is when he puffs up his chest to make himself look stronger. Chiara: “Not that kind of friend, so chill out. Besides, Pippa’s got dibs on him.” Darren: “Is there a problem?” Greasy Guy: “Yeah. You. How about you get out of my way?” Darren: “Chiara comes with us.” This is when Darren nods in my direction and I back up a hair. Greasy Guy: “You can’t have her. We’re not through here.” Chiara: “I should have cut ties with you years ago! You selfish piece of bleeping ble--” Greasy Guy: “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t put a dent in that pretty face of yours!” Chiara backs away and links her arm with mine, pulling me over to where Darren and I had stood. I turn my head to check on him. He’s right behind us. Greasy Guy takes off toward Manarola. Okay, so my version of their conversation must not have been accurate.

What’s your limit, huh? You gonna let me cut you up? Tie you up and leave you hanging? Beat you? Choke you until you pass out? Or does it not matter, as long as I keep my eyes on your face and my cock in your cunt? That’s fucking pathetic. You’re pathetic. And not worth my time. I could do much better than you. What about your friend? What was her name? Mallory? Yeah, why don’t you call her? Bet she’s a lot more fun. You’re just a disgusting little freak.

my abilities? How can I do something that matches these criteria now? Seeking out flow, I learned, is far more effective than self-punishing shame. Three: based on what I learned about the way social media is designed to hack our attention spans, I now take six months of the year totally off it. (This time is divided into chunks, usually of a few months.) To make sure I stick to it, I always announce publicly when I am going off—I’ll tweet that I am leaving the site for a certain amount of time, so that I will feel like a fool if I suddenly crack and go back a week later. I also get my friend Lizzie to change my passwords. Four: I acted on what I learned about the importance of mind-wandering. I realized that letting your mind wander is not a crumbling of attention, but in fact a crucial form of attention in its own right. It is when you let your mind drift away from your immediate surroundings that it starts to think over the past, and starts to game out the future, and makes connections between different things you have learned. Now I make it a point to go for a walk for an hour every day without my phone or anything else that could distract me. I let my thoughts float and find unexpected connections. I found that, precisely because I give my attention space to roam, my thinking is sharper, and I have better ideas. Five: I used to see sleep as a luxury, or—worse—as an enemy. Now I am strict with myself about getting eight hours every night. I have a little ritual where I make myself unwind: I don’t look at screens for two hours before I go to bed, and I light a scented candle and try to set aside the stresses of the day. I bought a FitBit device to measure my sleep, and if I get less than eight hours, I make myself go back to bed. This has made a really big difference. Six: I’m not a parent, but I am very involved in the lives of my godchildren and my young relatives. I used to spend a lot of my time with them deliberately doing things—busy, educational activities I would plan out in advance. Now I spend most of my time with them just playing freely, or letting them play on their own without being managed or oversupervised or imprisoned. I learned that the more free play they get, the more sound a foundation they will have for their focus and attention. I try to give them as much of that as I can. I would like to be able to tell you that I also do other things I learned I should do to improve my focus—cut out processed foods, meditate every day, build in other slow practices like yoga, and take an extra day off work each week. The truth is I struggle with this—so much of how I deal with ordinary anxiety is tied up with comfort eating and overworking.