Damaged Beyond Repair Quotes

I realize only one person will be damaged beyond repair if Peeta dies. Me.

But I didn't understand then. That I could hurt somebody so badly she would never recover. That a person can, just by living, damage another human being beyond repair.

All parents damage their children. It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair.

here she is, all mine, trying her best to give me all she can. How could I ever hurt her? But I didn’t understand then. That I could hurt somebody so badly she would never recover. That a person can, just by living, damage another human being beyond repair.

I don't want you forgetting how different our circumstaces are. If you die, and I live, there's no life for me at all back in District Twelve. You're my whole life." Peeta says. "I would never be happy again. It's different for you. I'm not saying it wouldn't be hard. But there are other people who'd make your life worth living." "No one really needs me," he says, and there's no selfpity in his voice. It's true his family doesn't need him. They will mourn him, as will a handfull of friends. But they will get on.... I realise only one person will be damaged beyond repair if Peeta dies. Me. "I do," I say. "I need you.

No one really needs me," he says, and there's no self pity in his voice. It's true his family doesn't need him. They will mourn him, as will a handful of friends. But they will get on. Even Haymitch, with the help of a lot of white liquor, will get on. I realize only one person will be damaged beyond repair if Peeta dies. Me. "I do," I say. "I need you." he looks upset, takes a deep breath as if to begin a long argument, and that's no good, no good at all, because he'll start going on about Prim and my mother and everything and I'll just get confused. So before he can talk, i stop his lips with a kiss.

Johnny and Marissa, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes marriage. Then comes an abrupt, tragic miscarriage. Then comes blame, then comes despair. Two hearts damaged beyond repair... Johnny leaves Marissa, and takes the tree. D-I-V-O-R-C-E.

Peeta and I sit on the damp sand, facing away from each other, my right shoulder and hip pressed against his. ... After a while I rest my head against his shoulder. Feel his hand caress my hair. "Katniss... If you die, and I live, there's no life for me at all back in District Twelve. You're my whole life", he says. "I would never be happy again." I start to object but he puts a finger to my lips. "It's different for you. I'm not sayin it wouldn't be hard. But there are other people who'd make your life worth living." ... "Your family needs you, Katniss", Peeta says. My family. My mother. My sister. And my pretend cousin Gale. But Peeta's intension is clear. That Gale really is my family, or will be one day, if I live. That I'll marry him. So Peeta's giving me his life and Gale at the same time. To let me know I shouldn't ever have doubts about it. Everithing. That's what Peeta wants me to take from him. ... "No one really needs me", he says, and there's no self-pity in his voice. It's true his family doesen't need him. They will mourn him, as will a handful of friends. But they will get on. Even Haymitch, with the help of a lot of white liquor, will get on. I realize only one person will be damaged beyond repair if Peeta dies. Me. "I do", I say. "I need you." He looks upset, takes a deep breath as if to begin a long argument, and that's no good, no good at all, because he'll start going on about Prim and my mother and everything and I'll just get confused. So before he can talk, I stop his lips with a kiss. I feel that thing again. The thing I only felt once before. In the cave last year, when I was trying to get Haymitch to send us food. I kissed Peeta about a thousand times during those Games and after. But there was only one kiss that made me feel something stir deep inside. Only one that made me want more. But my head wound started bleeding and he made me lie down. This time, there is nothing but us to interrupt us. And after a few attempts, Peeta gives up on talking. The sensation inside me grows warmer and spreads out from my chest, down through my body, out along my arms and legs, to the tips of my being. Instead of satisfying me, the kisses have the opposite effect, of making my need greater. I thought I was something of an expert on hunger, but this is an entirely new kind.

You're damaged beyond repair that even if I wanted to fix you I couldn't.

I was relieved in some weird way that the accident had actually occurred. It was a physical manifestation of what had already been going on inside the car. The outside now matched the inside - damaged beyond repair. (113)

Child, you do not know me. You have created a mythical being in my likeness whom you have set up as a god. It is not I. Many times, infant, I have told you that I am no hero, but I think you have not believed me. I tell you now that I am no fit mate for you...My reputation is damaged beyond repair, child. I come from vicious stock, and I have brought no honor to the name I bear. To no women have I been faithful; behind me lies scandal upon sordid scandal...You have seen perhaps the best of me; you have not seen the worst' 'Ah, Monseigneur, you need not have told me this! I know--I have always known, and still I love you. I do not want a boy. I only want Monseigneur.

But the problem with losing your morality is that sometimes it takes other things with it. You don’t realize the things that are important to you, in order to be the person you want to be, until you’ve already damaged them beyond repair.

Living well does not mean the abuse never happened. It means the abuse did not damage you beyond repair.

All parents damage their children. IT cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair. The damage done by Eddie's father was, at the beginning, the damage of neglect... All parents damage their children. This was their life together. Neglect. Violence. Silence. And now, someplace beoynd death, Eddie slumped against a stainless steel wall and dropped into a snowbank, stung again by the denial of a man whose love, almost inexplicably, he still coveted, a man ignoring him, even in heaven. His father. The damage done. ~pgs 104, 110

Kasyanov, I think I’ve made it pretty clear,” Lachance said. “Our attitude controls is damaged beyond repair, retro capability is down to thirty percent. Several containment bulkheads are cracked, and there’s a good chance if we initiate thrust we’ll just flash-fry ourselves with radiation.” He paused briefly. “We do still have coffee, though. That’s one positive.

Loving you is no more a beautiful memory, but now just a pain, I cry and weep every time I walk down the memory lane, Your love always completed me in every sense as a whole, But now it’s just emptiness and sorrow in my heart that drains, Of all the people in the world, you choose me to be hurt, Of all the hearts in the world, you choose mine to break… Why did you leave me I ask myself every morning and dawn? Why my love was incomplete tell me why you were gone? A silence surrounds my heart and fills it again with despair, Oh this pain is just too much, and the damage beyond repair, Please come back baby, just come back and bring that old smile, Or just come to see me every once in a while, So my heart no more bleeds, and no more my soul aches, So I can be peaceful after my death, in my ashes and burnt flakes…

I wonder how many marriages are fractured and damaged beyond repair by complacency rather than any single traumatic event. One day you wake up and realize that the distance between you and your spouse has grown to such an enormous width that neither of you are capable of clearing the distance. No matter how much speed you build up, or how far you can jump, it’s just there. Gaping and unforgiving.

Become fluent in the language of letting go. Learn to give people up before they hurt you beyond repair. Even if they tell you that they will change. Even if they tell you that they love you. Just remember, love isn’t meant to be permanently damaging. Love is meant to aid your healing.

I write for those that have no voice, for the silent ones who've been damaged beyond repair; I write for the broken child within me...

I let myself pretend for now that my life was normal; that I loved Leif and my heart wasn't damaged beyond repair because I was in love with someone I couldn't find and feared I would never again

The retreat and disappearance of glaciers—there are only 160,000 left—means we're burning libraries and damaging the planet, possibly beyond repair. Bit by bit, glacier by glacier, rib by rib, we're living the Fall.

Abused children as they grow to believe that they are damaged beyond repair.

I don't know anything, other than that it's only when something's damaged beyond repair that we realize how beautiful it was.

We humans are so defenceless compared to the rest of the natural world, he thought to himself. We have no shell to protect us, no fur, no horns, no claws. We are just soft skin and fragile bones; we have only our minds to figure out a way to keep ourselves safe, and sometimes that's just not enough. We can be so easily hurt, so easily broken, so easily damaged beyond repair.

I realize only one person will be damaged beyond repair if Peeta dies. Me. “I do,” I say. “I need you.

Abused children as they grow to believe that they are damaged beyond repair. A LIE that is believed and stays buried within for a very long time!

Damaged beyond repair. That was me. That was what I was. A wrecked monster. A killer. A hateful, vengeful beast.

on. I realize only one person will be damaged beyond repair if Peeta dies. Me. “I do,” I say. “I need you.

I can’t forgive you. I can’t and won’t trust you again. You betrayed me and it can never be made right again. Also, I can’t forgive myself. The things I did to hurt you, to survive after you left, and of course, the things I did to take revenge for the things you did, have damaged me beyond all repair.

The left side of my brain had been shut down like a damaged section of a spinship being sealed off, airtight doors leaving the doomed compartments open to vacuum. I could still think. Control of the right side of my body soon returned. Only the language centers had been damaged beyond simple repair. The marvelous organic computer wedged in my skull had dumped its language content like a flawed program. The right hemisphere was not without some language—but only the most emotionally charged units of communication could lodge in that affective hemisphere; my vocabulary was now down to nine words. (This, I learned later, was exceptional, many victims of CVAs retain only two or three.) For the record, here is my entire vocabulary of manageable words: fuck, shit, piss, cunt, goddamn, motherfucker, asshole, peepee, and poopoo;

The older I grow, the more I understand what the burned woman meant. Things I was able to walk through unscathed in my youth would mark me for life or damage me beyond repair now. Things I once shrugged off without thought would now bring about my collapse. I was much more flexible in both mind and body as a youth. I could absorb the impact and roll with the punches.

But the problem with losing your morality is that sometimes it takes other things with it. You don't realize the things that are important to you, in order to be the person you want to be, until you've already damaged them beyond repair.” •pg.333 - Kovit

No one really needs me,” he says, and there’s no self-pity in his voice. It’s true his family doesn’t need him. They will mourn him, as will a handful of friends. But they will get on. Even Haymitch, with the help of a lot of white liquor, will get on. I realize only one person will be damaged beyond repair if Peeta dies. Me. “I do,” I say. “I need you.

We moved into Jade Moon's rooming house within the week, and slowly she and I found that our friendship, though damaged, was like fabric torn on the seam: not beyond repair.

If we damage our life-support machinery beyond repair, there is no possibility of a resupply ship showing up in the nick of time to save us.

Parents damage their children. It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorb the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair.

There was no way that he could repair the damage done to their past; it was a task completely beyond his means. The path he chose–shutting himself off–was perhaps the only way of putting together a life for himself and avoiding damage from his mother’s projections.

And I knew, I knew as I answered her that I was breaking a rule of conduct which was there to protect them and me equally. Therapists, teachers, doctors, nurses: none of them should share their personal lives with their charges. It isn’t appropriate or fair. They aren’t friends, even if they take your advice, even if they rely on it, even when they share their darkest thoughts and deepest wishes with you. You must never reciprocate and share your feelings, hopes and fears, because in doing so you damage your respective roles in each other’s lives beyond repair.

From all that I’ve read, what Harry did to Riddle’s diary was one of the few really foolproof ways of destroying a Horcrux.” “What, stabbing it with a basilisk fang?” asked Harry. “Oh well, lucky we’ve got such a large supply of basilisk fangs, then,” said Ron. “I was wondering what we were going to do with them.” “It doesn’t have to be a basilisk fang,” said Hermione patiently. “It has to be something so destructive that the Horcrux can’t repair itself. Basilisk venom only has one antidote, and it’s incredibly rare--” “--phoenix tears,” said Harry, nodding. “Exactly,” said Hermione. “Our problem is that there are very few substances as destructive as basilisk venom, and they’re all dangerous to carry around with you. That’s a problem we’re going to have to solve, though, because ripping, smashing, or crushing a Horcrux won’t do the trick. You’ve got to put it beyond magical repair.” “But even if we wreck the thing it lives in,” said Ron, “why can’t the bit of soul in it just go and live in something else?” “Because a Horcrux is the complete opposite of a human being.” Seeing that Harry and Ron looked thoroughly confused, Hermione hurried on, “Look, if I picked up a sword right now, Ron, and ran you through with it, I wouldn’t damage your soul at all.” “Which would be a real comfort to me, I’m sure,” said Ron. Harry laughed. “It should be, actually!

Right now, it feels as if my heart has been ripped straight out of my chest and I’m desperately gasping for air. But each time that I try to breathe, my body becomes paralyzed, and I no longer understand nor have any more control of myself. I’m lost and confused, and when I try remember as to why I feel this way, I’m once again, reminded of what I've lost and the pain only grows further deeper—to the point that every muscle, every blood vein, every tissue, every scar is further damaged, well beyond repair. Truly, I don't know how I’m supposed to cope with this despair. I long to see her…to touch her…to kiss her…to look at her once again in her blue eyes and tell her that without her, I am nothing but dust.

Old Hubert must have had a premonition of his squalid demise. In October he said to me, ‘Forty-two years I’ve had this place. I’d really like to go back home, but I ain’t got the energy since my old girl died. And I can’t sell it the way it is now. But anyway before I hang my hat up I’d be curious to know what’s in that third cellar of mine.’ The third cellar has been walled up by order of the civil defence authorities after the floods of 1910. A double barrier of cemented bricks prevents the rising waters from invading the upper floors when flooding occurs. In the event of storms or blocked drains, the cellar acts as a regulatory overflow. The weather was fine: no risk of drowning or any sudden emergency. There were five of us: Hubert, Gerard the painter, two regulars and myself. Old Marteau, the local builder, was upstairs with his gear, ready to repair the damage. We made a hole. Our exploration took us sixty metres down a laboriously-faced vaulted corridor (it must have been an old thoroughfare). We were wading through a disgusting sludge. At the far end, an impassable barrier of iron bars. The corridor continued beyond it, plunging downwards. In short, it was a kind of drain-trap. That’s all. Nothing else. Disappointed, we retraced our steps. Old Hubert scanned the walls with his electric torch. Look! An opening. No, an alcove, with some wooden object that looks like a black statuette. I pick the thing up: it’s easily removable. I stick it under my arm. I told Hubert, ‘It’s of no interest. . .’ and kept this treasure for myself. I gazed at it for hours on end, in private. So my deductions, my hunches were not mistaken: the Bièvre-Seine confluence was once the site where sorcerers and satanists must surely have gathered. And this kind of primitive magic, which the blacks of Central Africa practise today, was known here several centuries ago. The statuette had miraculously survived the onslaught of time: the well-known virtues of the waters of the Bièvre, so rich in tannin, had protected the wood from rotting, actually hardened, almost fossilized it. The object answered a purpose that was anything but aesthetic. Crudely carved, probably from heart of oak. The legs were slightly set apart, the arms detached from the body. No indication of gender. Four nails set in a triangle were planted in its chest. Two of them, corroded with rust, broke off at the wood’s surface all on their own. There was a spike sunk in each eye. The skull, like a salt cellar, had twenty-four holes in which little tufts of brown hair had been planted, fixed in place with wax, of which there were still some vestiges. I’ve kept quiet about my find. I’m biding my time.

The left side of my brain had been shut down like a damaged section of a spinship being sealed off, airtight doors leaving the doomed compartments open to vacuum. I could still think. Control of the right side of my body soon returned. Only the language centers had been damaged beyond simple repair. The marvelous organic computer wedged in my skull had dumped its language content like a flawed program. The right hemisphere was not without some language – but only the most emotionally charged units of communication could lodge in that affective hemisphere; my vocabulary was now down to nine words. (This, I learned later, was exceptional, many victims of CVAs retain only two or three.) For the record, here is my entire vocabulary of manageable words: fuck, shit, piss, cunt, goddamn, motherfucker, asshole, peepee, and poopoo. A quick analysis will show some redundancy here. I had at my disposal eight nouns which stood for six things; five of the eight nouns could double as verbs. I retained one indisputable noun and a single adjective which also could be used as a verb or expletive. My new language universe was comprised of four monosyllables, three compound words, and two baby-talk repetitions. My arena of literal expression offered four avenues to the topic of elimination, two references to human anatomy, one request for divine imprecation, one standard description of or request for coitus, and a coital variation which was no longer an option for me since my mother was deceased. All in all, it was enough.

The United States over the last thirty years has seen a growing gap - indeed, a deepening gulf - between rich and poor. The gap is significantly greater than in any other developed nation. Moreover, the growing gulf between rich and poor is the result of social and economic policy, not because some classes of people worked harder and others slacked off over the last thirty years (all of us, according to most studies, are working harder). The differences among countries generate the same conclusion: social policy, not simply individual effort, is responsible for the distribution of wealth. Our recent social policy may not have been intended to produce this result, but it has. The consequence is increased suffering and desperation among the poor and potentially grave consequences for the society as a whole. Moreover, many people in the middle, who are most often struggling financially, support the individualistic ideology underlying our social policy - namely, the notions that we each have worked hard for what we have and ought to be able to keep all of it, that government is bad (or at least inefficient and wasteful - and hungry for our tax dollars), and that things will be better for all of us if we let the wealthiest people in our country make and keep as much money as possible. Many of us seem not to realize that the people who benefit the most from our politics and economics of individualism are the wealthiest 10 percent, especially the top 1 percent. People will support a tax cut that saves them $300 a year, without considering that the same tax cut will save the very wealthy tens of thousands or even hundreds of thousands a year, with significant damage to the social fabric, including not only decreased help for the poor and disadvantaged but also cuts in services such as public schools, road repairs, parks, libraries, and so forth.

She knew the effort it took to keep one’s exterior self together, upright, when everything inside was in pieces, broken beyond repair. One touch, one warm, compassionate hand, could shatter that hard-won perfect exterior. And then it would take years and years to restore it. This tiny, effeminate creature dressed in velvet suits, red socks, an absurdly long scarf usually wrapped around his throat, trailing after him like a coronation robe. He who pronounced, after dinner, “I’m going to go sit over here with the rest of the girls and gossip!” This pixie who might suddenly leap into the air, kicking one foot out behind him, exclaiming, “Oh, what fun, fun, fun it is to be me! I’m beside myself!” “Truman, you could charm the rattle off a snake,” Diana Vreeland pronounced. Hemingway - He was so muskily, powerfully masculine. More than any other man she’d met, and that was saying something when Clark Gable was a notch in your belt. So it was that, and his brain, his heart—poetic, sad, boyish, angry—that drew her. And he wanted her. Slim could see it in his hungry eyes, voraciously taking her in, no matter how many times a day he saw her; each time was like the first time after a wrenching separation. How to soothe and flatter and caress and purr and then ignore, just when the flattering and caressing got to be a bit too much. Modesty bores me. I hate people who act coy. Just come right out and say it, if you believe it—I’m the greatest. I’m the cat’s pajamas. I’m it! He couldn’t humiliate her vulnerability, her despair. Old habits die hard. Particularly among the wealthy. And the storytellers, gossips, and snakes. Is it truly a scandal? A divine, delicious literary scandal, just like in the good old days of Hemingway and Fitzgerald? The loss of trust, the loss of joy; the loss of herself. The loss of her true heart. An amusing, brief little time. A time before it was fashionable to tell the truth, and the world grew sordid from too much honesty. In the end as in the beginning, all they had were the stories. The stories they told about one another, and the stories they told to themselves. Beauty. Beauty in all its glory, in all its iterations; the exquisite moment of perfect understanding between two lonely, damaged souls, sitting silently by a pool, or in the twilight, or lying in bed, vulnerable and naked in every way that mattered. The haunting glance of a woman who knew she was beautiful because of how she saw herself reflected in her friend’s eyes. The splendor of belonging, being included, prized, coveted. What happened to Truman Capote. What happened to his swans. What happened to elegance. What truly was the price they paid, for the lives they lived. For there is always a price. Especially in fairy tales.

If they had instead been disposed to make trouble for the star there can be little doubt his fate would have been sealed. At the very least his career and reputation would have been damaged beyond repair. Pellicano is said to have been involved in paying off dozens of other potential witnesses, some of whom received fabulous gifts in suspicious circumstances.

toxic masculinity is also damaging the environment, perhaps beyond repair, through gendered understandings of natural resources, social roles and political hierarchies.

Here are fifteen types of questions you should ask: 1. Is this item useful? Can it save me time, energy or money? Does it fulfill a need or purpose? If not, let it go. 2. Do I like it? If not, let it go. 3. Does it make my life easier in some way? If not, let it go. 4. Have I worn it, used it, found pleasure in it or looked at it in the last year? If not, let it go. 5. Does it energize me or drain me? If it drains you, let it go. 6. Is it broken beyond repair or damaged in some way? If so, let it go. 7. Is the information it provides outdated (e.g., old books, magazines, videos, etc.)? If so, let it go. 8. Am I holding on to it out of guilt? If so, let it go. 9. Have I finished using it and see no reason to use it again? If so, let it go. 10. Does it reflect the person I am today or a past version of me? If it reflects the past, let it go. 11. Do I already own something similar? If so, let it go. 12. Will I complete this (e.g., a knitting project, an unfinished book)? If not, let it go. 13. Am I spending too much time weighing the pros and cons? If so, let it go. 14. If I had to downsize to a much smaller house, would this go with me? If not, let it go. 15. Does this have any historical or potential financial value (e.g., an item passed down for several generations)? If not, let it go.

I can see now that we’re both damaged and flawed, but not so much so that it’s beyond repair. I need this man and he needs me, too. I can feel that.

I love you,” Val began, wondering where in the nine circles of hell that had come from. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry; that came out… wrong. Still…” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “It’s the truth.” Ellen’s fingers settled on his nape, massaging in the small, soothing circles Val had come to expect when her hands were on him. “If you love me,” she said after a long, fraught silence, “you’ll tell me the truth.” Val tried to see that response as positive—she hadn’t stomped off, railed at him, or tossed his words back in his face. Yet. But neither had she reciprocated. “My name is Valentine Windham,” he said slowly, “but you’ve asked about my family, and in that regard—and that regard only—I have not been entirely forthcoming.” “Come forth now,” she commanded softly, her hand going still. “My father is the Duke of Moreland. That’s all. I’m a commoner, my title only a courtesy, and I’m not even technically the spare anymore, a situation that should improve further, because my brother Gayle is deeply enamored of his wife.” “Improve?” Ellen’s voice was soft, preoccupied. “I don’t want the title, Ellen.” Val sat up, needing to see her eyes. “I don’t ever want it, not for me, not for my son or grandson. I make pianos, and it’s a good income. I can provide well for you, if you’ll let me.” “As your mistress?” “Bloody, blazing… no!” Val rose and paced across the porch, turning to face her when he could go no farther. “As my wife, as my beloved, dearest wife.” A few heartbeats of silence went by, and with each one, Val felt the ringing of a death knell over his hopes. “I would be your mistress. I care for you, too, but I cannot be your wife.” Val frowned at that. It wasn’t what he’d been expecting. A conditional rejection, that’s what it was. She’d give him time, he supposed, to get over his feelings and move along with his life. “Why not marry me?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. She crossed her arms too. “What else haven’t you told me?” “Fair enough.” Val came back to sit beside her and searched his mind. “I play the piano. I don’t just mess about with it for polite entertainment. Playing the piano used to be who I was.” “You were a musician?” Val snorted. “I was a coward, but yes, I was a musician, a virtuoso of the keyboard. Then my hand”—he held up his perfectly unremarkable left hand—“rebelled against all the wear and tear, or came a cropper somehow. I could not play anymore, not without either damaging it beyond all repair or risking a laudanum addiction, maybe both.” “So you came out here?” Ellen guessed. “You took on the monumental task of setting to rights what I had put wrong on this estate and thought that would be… what?” “A way to feel useful or maybe just a way to get tired enough each day that I didn’t miss the music so much, and then…” “Then?” She took his hand in hers, but Val wasn’t reassured. His mistress, indeed. “Then I became enamored of my neighbor. She beguiled me—she’s lovely and dear and patient. She’s a virtuoso of the flower garden. She cared about my hand and about me without once hearing me play the piano, and this intrigued me.” “You intrigued me,” Ellen admitted, pressing the back of his hand to her cheek. “You still do.” “My Ellen loves to make beauty, as do I.” Val turned and used his free hand to trace the line of Ellen’s jaw. “She is as independent as I am and values her privacy, as I do.” “You are merely lonely, Val.

How many times do I have to say it?” Sylvan said through gritted teeth. “I have vowed never—” “Never to call a bride,” Baird finished for him. “I know, I know. I just wish you would change your mind, Brother. Wish you could experience the joy I feel when I hold Olivia in my arms.” “I wish it too,” Sylvan admitted in a low voice. “But even if I hadn’t made a sacred vow to the Mother of All Life, I could never call a bride. That part of me is…broken. Damaged beyond repair.” “Don’t you think I was broken too?” Baird demanded, frowning at him. “After what I went through on the Scourge Fathership? Hell, I was shattered into a thousand pieces but Olivia fixed me. I’m telling you, Sylvan, the right female can heal your wounds if you’d just give her a chance.” “No such female exists.” Sylvan stared down at the program clutched tightly in his hand. “Not for me.” Baird

Gavin…I’ve never felt anything like this. You’ll never be my friend again, never my surrogate brother. If I am the standard to which you hold the women in your life…then you are more than that for the men in mine. How will I ever find someone to compare to you? You, with your bold smiles and your brilliant mind and your handsome face…” She touched his cheek, running her fingers along his jaw. “You have quite ruined me for all others.” They kissed again, languishing in the feel of each other, before he raised his head and spoke, his voice deep and soft, “Now that you’ve wheedled your way into my heart and mind and tricked me into confessing my feelings for you, don’t you think you ought to be on your way…before someone finds us and I’ve damaged your reputation beyond repair? Although, I confess, right now I could think of worse ways to end this evening than betrothed to you…despite your opinions on the subject of marriage.” The

Perhaps, the important thing is not to forget, but it's just about smiling when we're remembering.

...and then you discover that you can break yourself in a way that can't be fixed...

People accept only those things, what are convenient for them to Accept...

Beyond providing structural integrity, connective tissue helps transmit force, protect muscles and bones from injury, shuttle nutrients around, and repair damaged cells.

Are we a family damaged beyond repair? I don’t know. I do believe in the power of words and stories to make sense of things. I can still hear my mother’s voice: “You’ll be fine without me.” Well, we are and we aren’t.

...it's only when something's damaged beyond repair that we realize how beautiful it was. [LEO PHILBET]

...it's only when something's damaged beyond repair that we realize how beautiful it was. [LEO PHILBET]

We are the strongest creatures in the world and yet we are damaged beyond repair. We live without hope, but we will never die. We are the definition of cursed, always and forever.

We sell under the following three conditions (the numbers in parentheses indicate the number of businesses sold): 1. A decline in governance standards (0) 2. Egregiously wrong capital allocation (3) 3. Irreparable damage to the business (6) We have sold ten businesses since 2007 (the nine listed here plus the mistake). I am excluding three businesses that strategic buyers acquired. This translates to one exit every one and a half years. How’s that for laziness? As you can see, six of our nine exits occurred because we believed the business had been damaged beyond repair. And how did we come to that conclusion? An example can clarify.

I don’t know anything, other than that it’s only when something’s damaged beyond repair that we realise how beautiful it was.

Are we a family damaged beyond repair? I don't know. I do believe in the power of words and stories to make sense of things.

Repairing the damage to self-processes and reintegrating and transfiguring the ego identity are lifelong endeavors.

The happiness Eric so obviously felt was something Keiran realized he’d lacked in relationships. Had he ever truly had that? With his music, sure. He could say without a doubt that made him happy. His past relationships had mostly been great, except his last one that had been damaged beyond repair. Thinking on it now, he could say he’d cared for his exes while he’d been with them, but this level of joy? He didn’t know.

sweaty, aching, and covered in earth. Everyone traipsed back to the castle for a quick wash and then the Gryffindors hurried off to Transfiguration. Professor McGonagall’s classes were always hard work, but today was especially difficult. Everything Harry had learned last year seemed to have leaked out of his head during the summer. He was supposed to be turning a beetle into a button, but all he managed to do was give his beetle a lot of exercise as it scuttled over the desktop avoiding his wand. Ron was having far worse problems. He had patched up his wand with some borrowed Spellotape, but it seemed to be damaged beyond repair. It kept crackling and sparking at odd moments, and every time Ron tried to transfigure his beetle

But I knew who I was, and I knew that the spot inside me created specifically for the purpose of loving and being loved was gone. Amputated, like a limb damaged beyond repair in the bloodiest of battles. In its place was a thick stump of scar tissue that had no business feeling anything at all, but that didn't stop the phantom pains.

Every part of her felt the emptiness of life without John. She imagined she’d been skinned, and that ice-cold air was blowing over her flayed flesh. Staring at the white walls, she felt she was floating in some universe of her own, alone, damaged beyond repair, irredeemably cut off from love, from hope, from life itself.

An idea with potential may be damaged beyond repair if criticized or dismissed too early.

I think we have to prioritise, number two,’ said the Captain gravely. ‘It’s all very well wanting luxuries like new sails or portholes with glass in them, but there are also much more pressing necessities. Like me getting a nice new coat.’ ‘You only got that coat last week, Captain!’ said Jennifer with a frown. ‘For that pirate conclave in Nassau. I remember because Cut-throat Jenkins had exactly the same design. It was something of a social faux pas.’ ‘Ah, but you see, it’s ruined. Probably in last night’s exciting sea battle,’ said the Pirate Captain. He held up the hem of his coat, where a tiny piece of stitching had come loose. ‘It’s only a small tear,’ said the pirate with a scarf. ‘I can mend that in no time. Remember that adventure where we set up a Bond Street fashion house and Black Bellamy had a rival fashion house and we competed in London Fashion Week?’ ‘The one where my daring take on traditional tailoring took the fashion world by storm and Black Bellamy cheated by copying the exact same designs and managed to get them on to the catwalk just before we did?’ ‘Yes, that’s the one. Anyway, I picked up quite a few sewing skills.’ ‘That’s good of you, but I think this damage is beyond repair, number two.’ The Pirate Captain grabbed the bottom of his coat and tore it another foot and a half. ‘See? That could happen at any time. I definitely need a new one. So we’ll stop off in London, give the lads some shore leave and get me a new coat.