Deep Hamilton Quotes

No name-calling truly bites deep unless, in some dark part of us, we believe it. If we are confident enough then it is just noise.

He was sweet and charming and smart... but my feelings for Wesley were way beyond that. I'd skipped the crush kiddie pool and jumped right into the deep, shark-infested ocean of emotions. And, if you'll forgive the dramatic metaphor, I was a lousy swimmer.

Some wounds cut us so deep that they stop us. Stop us from letting go, from growing up, from seeing the truth.

Amanda Hamilton poem: “I must let go now. Let you go. Love is too often The answer for staying. Too seldom the reason For going. I drop the line And watch you drift away. “All along You thought The fiery current Of your lover’s breast Pulled you to the deep. But it was my heart-tide Releasing you To float adrift With seaweed.

I started to kiss him back, slower and clumsy where his had been sure, practiced. I was worried I was doing it wrong, but then a deep sound came from him, almost a growl and instinctively I knew it was a sound of approval.

I’d skipped the crush kiddie pool and jumped right into the deep, shark-infested ocean of emotions. And, if you’ll forgive the dramatic metaphor, I was a lousy swimmer.

His dark blue shirt was plastered to his chest, covered with werewolf goop and tears. "Now we both need a bath," I said. "That can be arranged." "Please, Jean-Claude, no sexual innuendo until after I'm clean." "Of course, MA PETITE. It was crude of me tonight. My apologies." I stared at him. He was being far too nice. Jean-Claude was a lot of things, but nice wasn't one of them. "If you're up to something, I don't want to know about it. I can't handle any deep, dark plots tonight, okay?" He smiled and gave a low, sweeping bow, never taking his eyes off me. The way you bow on the judo mat when you're afraid the person may pound you if you look away. I shook my head. He WAS up to something. Nice to know that not everyone had suddenly become something else. One thing I could always depend on what Jean-Claude. Pain in the ass that he was, he always seemed to be there. Dependable in his own twisted way. Jean-Claude dependable? I must have been more tired than I thought.

I have since wondered if a person can know how deep a thing goes without getting outside of it, without taking it apart, without, in fact, ruining it.

...to limit the meaning of Aslan simply to lion from Turkish is to miss its deep northern resonances and the song of the snowflakes whirling around it. Lewis admitted that, as a boy, he had been ‘crazed by northern–ness’ and there are many subtle references to Norse mythology in the story. In fact, if we treat Aslan as a word from Old Norse, it simply means god of the land. By combining that meaning with Turkish lion, it is essentially cognate which Welsh, Llew, lion, the very word from which the name Lewis is derived.

Speaking out loud, she recited an Amanda Hamilton poem: “I must let go now. Let you go. Love is too often The answer for staying. Too seldom the reason For going. I drop the line And watch you drift away. “All along You thought The fiery current Of your lover’s breast Pulled you to the deep. But it was my heart-tide Releasing you To float adrift With seaweed.

I didn’t know what to say to that. I just stared at him. He was right, of course he was right, but… “I can’t do my job like this.” “No,” he said, “you can’t.” Then suddenly I felt the first tear slide down my face. “No crying,” he said. Another tear joined the first. I fought not to wipe at them. His hand dropped to his side and he took a deep breath. “That’s not fair. Don’t cry.” “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to, but you’re right, I think. I’m pregnant, damn it, not crippled.

I’d skipped the crush kiddie pool and jumped right into the deep, shark-infested ocean of emotions. And, if you’ll forgive the dramatic metaphor, I was a lousy swimmer.

Most of the time you're ass deep in alligators.

For as much as Hillary Clinton might hate admitting this about Monica Lewinisky, Eleanor Roosevelt about Missy Le Hand, Queen Alexandra about Lillie Langtry, Lady Nelson about Emma Hamilton, or Jackie about Marilyn, the reality is that despite their intrinsic animosity toward each other, on a a deep level, the wife and the mistress generally have far more in common than they might care to admit and could, had fate dealt them different cards, even been true friends.

Beauty really was skin-deep. Wesley Rush may have had the body of a Greek god, but his soul was as black and empty as the inside of my closet. What a bastard!

Rieker threaded her hair behind her ears with his other hands, his fingers lingering against her cheek. "We're different Tiki," he said softly. "We're caught between two worlds and honestly, I don't know which one we belong in. But I do know this - I don't want to be either place without you." He looked deep into her eyes. "I believe we found each other because we're meant to be together.

But Jasmine knew that everyone was evil, down deep when you scrape the skin away. Inside their heads everyone hunted, everyone killed, everyone was a monster.

I'd skipped the crush kiddie pool and jumped right into the deep, shark-infested ocean of emotions. And, if you'll forgive the dramatic metaphor, I was a lousy swimmer.

There are pains too deep for words, but there’s touch to say what words can’t.

Maidens excellent in beauty, Riding their steeds in shining armor, Solemn and deep in thought, With their white hands beckoning. -Valkyries

If you’ve managed to keep a creature in your fridge for longer than most Americans remain married, you probably know a thing or two about it. Tardigrades are found on every continent and at nearly all elevations: in deep-sea trenches, burbling hot springs, forest canopies, and desert dunes.

I prayed as we walked up the hill. I prayed and felt a measure of calm return. No visions. No angels singing. But a feeling of peace flowed over me. Ii took a deep breath, and something hard and tight and ugly in my heart let go. I took it as a good sign that I'd get to Jeff in time. But part of me was skeptical. God doesn't always save someone. Often He just helps you live through the loss. I guess I don't entirely trust God. I never doubt Him, but His motives are too beyond me. Through a glass darkly and all that. Just once I'd like to see through the damn glass clearly.

I have to clean up first. I’m still all sweaty and stuff from the crime scene.” I realized he was wearing a white shirt and I might have dried blood on me. It made me draw back and look at the front of him. “What is wrong, ma petite?” “I may have dried blood and things on me, and you’re wearing white.” He drew me back into his arms. “I would rather hold you close than worry about my clothes. The shirt will wash, or we can throw it away. I do not care.” I pushed back just enough to turn my face up, resting my chin on his chest so that I gazed up the line of his body, and he looked down so that our eyes met down the line of his chest. “I know you love me, but when you don’t care about your clothes, I know it’s true love for you.” I grinned as I said it. He laughed, abrupt, surprised, and for a moment I got to see what he must have looked like centuries ago before being a vampire had taught him to control his face and show nothing for fear it would be used against him by those more powerful than him. I smiled up at him, held as close to him as I could with clothes and weapons still on, and loved him. I loved that I could make him laugh like that, loved that he felt safe enough to show me this part of him, loved that even when we were ass-deep in alligators, being with each other made it better. The alligators would be chewing on our asses either way, but with each other it was more fun, and we were more likely to be able to make a matching set of alligator luggage out of our enemies rather than end up as their dinner. I gazed up at him as the laughter filled his face, and just loved him. The day had sucked, but Jean-Claude made it suck a lot less, and that was what love was supposed to do. It was supposed to make things better, not worse, which made me wonder if Asher truly loved anyone. I pushed the thought away, and enjoyed the man in my arms, and the fact that I had made him laugh.

It is easy to snicker at such deceit and conclude that Hamilton faked all emotion for his wife, but this would belie the otherwise exemplary nature of their marriage. Eliza Hamilton never expressed anything less than a worshipful attitude toward her husband. His love for her, in turn, was deep and constant if highly imperfect. The problem was that no single woman could seem to satisfy all the needs of this complex man with his checkered childhood. As mirrored in his earliest adolescent poems, Hamilton seemed to need two distinct types of love: love of the faithful, domestic kind and love of the more forbidden, exotic variety. In

I'd skipped the crush kiddie pool and jumped right into the deep, shark infested ocean of emotions.

Remember. The actions you take have deep roots in self-worth and self-love or lack thereof.

I am beautiful in my own right. Not in vain, proud way but in the way God made me. My beauty isn't connected to the amount of boys that look at me. I do not become less beautiful because no boys flirt with me. No my beauty is not skin deep. My beauty is not found in my appearance. I am beautiful because God doesn't make mistakes or second bests. I am beautiful because I am a child of God. Perfectly imperfect.

His massive probity, combined with his persistent geniality, made him impossible to hate. He lacked Washington’s gravitas, Hamilton’s charisma, and Madison’s cerebral power, but he more than compensated with a conspicuous cogency in both his conversation and his prose that suggested a deep reservoir of learning he could tap at will. Permanently poised, always the calm center of the storm, when a controversial issue arose, he always seemed to have thought it through more clearly and deeply than anyone else, so that his opinion had a matter-of-fact quality that made dissent seem impolite.

If you give me the five hundred dollars right now, I’ll let you do whatever you want to me,” she whimpered. “Why are you being such a hard ass, Jeni?” he said with a wry smile. He took her hand and slid it down the front of his bare torso. His abdominal muscles rippled under her hand. Then he slid her hand over his erection. His cock twitched at the feel of her hand. “You know you want me to fuck you.” “Then cough up the money, Hamilton!” Though her voice regained its edge, her body was seconds away from crumbling. She wanted nothing more than him buried deep inside her. She ached for him.

she recited an Amanda Hamilton poem: “I must let go now. Let you go. Love is too often The answer for staying. Too seldom the reason For going. I drop the line And watch you drift away. “All along You thought The fiery current Of your lover’s breast Pulled you to the deep. But it was my heart-tide Releasing you To float adrift With seaweed.

The Beautiful General stood up over and over again for those who couldn't stand for themselves, and others stood with her. And she won every fight, one after the other, the way her father had taught her to. Until the day she lost. The general's daughter was punished for daring to ask for a better world. She was sent deep into the darkness, hidden away, where a good death would never find her. ... And for once she could find no escape, not even with her quick and clever mind. For the first time, the general's daughter was forced to watch instead of standing to fight. ... The Beautiful General's back ached from bowing it when she didn't want to. Her eyes hurt from turning away when men and women burned. Her throat pained from being silent. So the general loosened her tongue, opened her eyes, and straightened her back. And she stood up to walk into death...

I glanced at Bernardo, but kept my gaze on the big man across the table. "What gives, Bernardo? He does talk, right?" Bernardo nodded. "He talks." I turned my full attention back to Olaf. "You're just not going to talk to me, is that it?" He just glared at me. "You think not hearing the dulcet sounds of your voice is some kind of punishment? Most men are such jabber mouths. Silence is nice for a change. Thanks for being so considerate, Olaf, baby." I made the last word into two very separate syllables. "I am not your baby." The voice was deep and matched that vast chest. There was also a guttural accent underneath all that clear English, German maybe. "It speaks. Be still my heart." Olaf frowned. "I did not agree with your being included on this hunt. We do not need help from a woman, any woman." "Well, Olaf, honey, you need help from someone because the three of you haven't come up with shit on the mutilations." A flush of color crept up his neck into his face. "Do not call me that." "What? Honey?" He nodded. "You prefer sweetheart, honeybun, pumpkin?" The color spread from pink to red, and was getting darker. "Do not use terms of endearment to me. I am no one's sweetheart.

To answer the question, what makes a tragedy, is to answer the question wherein lies the essential significance of life, what the dignity of humanity depends upon in the last analysis. Here the tragedians speak to us with no uncertain voice. The great tragedies themselves offer the solution to the problem they propound. It is by our power to suffer, above all, that we are of more value than the sparrows. Endow them with a greater or as great a potentiality of pain and our foremost place in the world would no longer be undisputed. Deep down, when we search out the reason for our conviction of the transcendent worth of each human being, we know that it is because of the possibility that each can suffer so terribly. What do outside trappings matter, Zenith or Elsinore? Tragedy’s preoccupation is with suffering. But,

In his well-known statement in the Poetics that poetry has a higher truth than history since it expresses truth of general application whereas that of history is partial and limited, he is not speaking as a scientist nor would the statement commend itself to the scientific mind outside of Greece. There is no evidence, again, of the scientist’s point of view in the great passage where he sets forth the reason for the work of his life, his search into the nature of all living things: The glory, doubtless, of the heavenly bodies fills us with more delight than the contemplation of these lowly things, but the heavens are high and far off, and the knowledge of celestial things that our senses give us, is scanty and dim. Living creatures, on the contrary, are at our door, and if we so desire we may gain full and certain knowledge of each and all. We take pleasure in a statue’s beauty; should not then the living fill us with delight? And all the more if in the spirit of the love of knowledge we search for causes and bring to light evidences of meaning. Then will nature’s purpose and her deep-seated laws be revealed in all things, all tending in her multitudinous work to one form or another of the beautiful. Did ever scientist outside of Greece so state the object of scientific research? To Aristotle, being a Greek, it was apparent that the full purpose of that high enterprise could not be expressed in any way except the way of poetry, and, being a Greek, he was able so to express it. Spirituality inevitably brings to our mind

How exactly the debt should be funded was to be the most inflammatory political issue. During the Revolution, many affluent citizens had invested in bonds, and many war veterans had been paid with IOUs that then plummeted in price under the confederation. In many cases, these upright patriots, either needing cash or convinced they would never be repaid, had sold their securities to speculators for as little as fifteen cents on the dollar. Under the influence of his funding scheme, with government repayment guaranteed, Hamilton expected these bonds to soar from their depressed levels and regain their full face value. This pleasing prospect, however, presented a political quandary. If the bonds appreciated, should speculators pocket the windfall? Or should the money go to the original holders—many of them brave soldiers—who had sold their depressed government paper years earlier? The answer to this perplexing question, Hamilton knew, would define the future character of American capital markets. Doubtless taking a deep breath, he wrote that “after the most mature reflection” about whether to reward original holders and punish current speculators, he had decided against this approach as “ruinous to public credit.”25 The problem was partly that such “discrimination” in favor of former debt holders was unworkable. The government would have to track them down, ascertain their sale prices, then trace all intermediate investors who had held the debt before it was bought by the current owners—an administrative nightmare. Hamilton could have left it at that, ducking the political issue and taking refuge in technical jargon. Instead, he shifted the terms of the debate. He said that the first holders were not simply noble victims, nor were the current buyers simply predatory speculators. The original investors had gotten cash when they wanted it and had shown little faith in the country’s future. Speculators, meanwhile, had hazarded their money and should be rewarded for the risk. In this manner, Hamilton stole the moral high ground from opponents and established the legal and moral basis for securities trading in America: the notion that securities are freely transferable and that buyers assume all rights to profit or loss in transactions. The knowledge that government could not interfere retroactively with a financial transaction was so vital, Hamilton thought, as to outweigh any short-term expediency. To establish the concept of the “security of transfer,” Hamilton was willing, if necessary, to reward mercenary scoundrels and penalize patriotic citizens. With this huge gamble, Hamilton laid the foundations for America’s future financial preeminence.

Who of us doesn’t want to look back on our days here on this planet and feel that we fulfilled our purpose? That we didn’t take a pass on the gifts buried deep inside of us? If each of us decided today that we were going to be a little more productive, a little more sacrificial, a little more selfless, a little more kind, a little more forgiving, and a little more hard working, the planet would change in an instant. That’s the kind of victory I’m pulling for. That’s what it would look like for us to finish first.

Part of me wonders, in a world that seems so divided and divisive, if we’re really at odds with one another or if we’re just feeling entitled and lazy. Maybe we’re just so bored with our comfortable lives that we have to find something to fill our time. As humans, we are wired for a challenge, so if we don’t challenge ourselves, we’ll find petty drama and arguments to keep us busy. Spend time around people who are truly working to bring the best version of themselves to the world, and my guess is that we won’t feel much like arguing anymore. You become like the people with whom you spend the most time. So it should be no surprise that spending time with people who beat me constantly didn’t deter me from finishing first. Instead, it helped me access my own will to win. Why is it that we get so caught up with thinking that beating someone is bad for them? What if winning is the kindest, bravest, most helpful thing you can do? Healthy competition teaches us. It doesn’t hold us back. It pushes us forward. When we bring our best to the competition, it challenges everyone to dig deep and discover their hidden talents, their buried tenacity, their untapped skill. You were put on this Earth to do something amazing. Something nobody else can do. The only way you can do that thing is to tap into your deepest power, your greatest potential. Far too many of us are missing it because we’re worried about making a way for someone else.

I get excited by the kind of person I know you will become when you give up your excuses and start uncovering what you’ve been capable of all this time. I get excited by the kind of impact you will be able to have when you stop playing small, when you get out of your own way, when you are ready to be done holding back and to become all you were made to be. I get excited by inspiring every individual I meet to access his or her great potential so that the world doesn’t miss what he or she brings to the table. This is what finishing first is about for me. It’s not about proving yourself or beating your competitors but about accessing your deep purpose. What is your unique purpose? Do you know? If you do know, have you taken any time to stop and make sure you’re doing what you were put here to do? My faith tells me that everything is meaningful, that nothing happens by accident. You are here for a reason.

Nice to meet you, Verne, but don’t call me little lady.” I started to wipe the blood on the edge of the black jacket. Black’s good for that. “Don’t you ever give an inch?” Jamil asked. I glanced at him. There was blood all over his nice white clothes. “No,” I said. I motioned him over to me. He frowned. “What?” “I want to use your shirt to wipe the blood off the blade.” He just stared at me. “Come on, Jamil. The shirt is already ruined.” Jamil pulled the shirt over his head in one smooth motion. He threw the shirt at me, and I caught it one-handed. I started cleaning the blade with the unstained part of the shirt. Verne laughed. He had one of those deep, rolling chuckles that matched his gravelly voice. “No wonder Richard’s been having such a hard time finding a replacement for you. You are a solid, cast-iron, ball-busting bitch.” I looked at his smiling face. I think it was a compliment. Besides, truth was truth. I wasn’t down here to win Miss Congeniality. I was down here to rescue Richard and to stay alive. Bitch was just about the right speed for that.

Nathaniel was in the other bed. His hair was longer than Stephen’s. Waist length, I was betting. Hard to judge since I’d only seen him prone. It was the darkest of auburns, almost brown but not. It was a rich, deep mahogany. The hair lay on the white sheets like the pelt of an animal, thick and shining. He

Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires,

In the empty halls of the castle now abandoned and silenced by time, they waltzed cheek to cheek over the ancient floor of dust with unknown stories buried deep in the soil below.

At first glance her beauty was striking—fresh-faced and delicate with large eyes, her little black dress cinched at the waist, her hair pinned in a chignon. At second glance, her deep, intelligent eyes were entrancing, still vivid on newspapers yellowed from light and air and lined with age that Fate didn’t offer to her.

Prince of Wales still lies, her huge 44,000-ton bulk turned upside down by the violence of the enemy, nearly 40 fathoms deep off the Malaysian coast. Here, in all its concentrated, solemn vastness, an official war grave, is a solid, enduring relic of Britain’s final days as a great industrial, economic and naval power. At 745 feet long and 105 feet wide, she contains centuries of shipbuilding and fighting experience, now dead, scattered, disbanded, forgotten or lost, thousands of tons of steel from blast furnaces, mills and forges long demolished, made with coal from mines long ago closed and sealed, and dug and smelted and hammered by an industrial working class now vanished. Every intricate part of her was made according to the traditional measurements of England, feet, inches, pounds and hundredweight. These are now abandoned in favour of the metric system which was used by our enemies in that war and which would have been imposed upon us had we been defeated. But in this matter, as in so many others, we have made a conquest of ourselves. Somewhere in her barnacled ruins is the cabin where Churchill slept, the cinema where he watched That Hamilton Woman with tears in his eyes, the bridge from which he waved so cheerfully, and perhaps the rotted fragments of the hymn book from which he so lustily sang ‘For Those in Peril on the Sea’ and ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers!’, beside his ally and supposed friend, the president of the United States.

I must let go now let you go love is too often the answer for staying too seldom the reason for going I drop the line and watch you drift away all along you thought the fiery current of your lover’s breast pulled you into the deep but it was my heart-tide releasing you to float adrift with seaweed — amanda hamilton’ poem

Burr held to the heretical belief, shared only by John Adams in the circle of Founding Fathers, that women were fully the equals of men, just as capable in intellect, just as sensible, and just as deep in feeling.

Who you going to call when it looks like you’re really going to have to survive the zombie apocalypse? I knew exactly who to call. ‘Ted, you know how you complained that I had a zombie apocalypse and didn’t invite you?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Consider yourself invited.’ He gave a small chuckle, the way some men will do when you say something sexy. ‘You’re excited. After what we saw in the hospital and the basement you’re excited about this,’ I said. ‘Yeah, I am.’ ‘There’s something wrong with you, you do know that, right?’ I said, and laughed. ‘Yeah, I do know.’ ‘And, Ted?’ ‘Yes, Anita.’ ‘Bring your flamethrower.’ He gave that excited sex chuckle again. ‘For real, you’re not just teasing this time?’ ‘Zombie reports from all over the area and it’s still daylight. It’s just going to get worse after dark.’ He gave that low, deep laugh again. ‘You say the best things.’ ‘Conversations like this is one of the reasons people think we’re doing each other.’ ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Someone on your end of the phone said something you didn’t like about us, or me, and you’re rubbing their face in it.’ ‘Would I do that?’ The words were innocent; the tone was not. Someone must have done something that truly pissed him off for him to play into it like this, because he knew it hurt my reputation worse than his. ‘Get here as soon as you can, and let me know which of the guys with you pissed you off and I’ll help you play with him, between killing zombies.’ ‘You sweet-talking thing, you,’ he said. That made me laugh. We hung up with both of us laughing. There were so many reasons that Edward and I were friends.

Have you been having fun, Eliza?” Gloria asked. “She’s danced every dance,” Hamilton said before Eliza could respond. “How wonderful,” Gloria exclaimed. “See, I told you there was no reason for your earlier distress.” “You were distressed?” Mr. Murdock inquired as he leaned forward over Agatha. “It was only a little case of nerves,” Eliza returned, her eyes widening when Hamilton absently traced a finger down her arm. The action was not lost on Mr. Murdock. He sat back in his seat and turned his head to address the guest on his left. “What are you doing?” Eliza hissed. “If you’re not careful, everyone will believe there’s soon to be an announcement.” “That would bother you?” And just what did he mean by that? She took a deep breath and slowly released it. “You’ve obviously lost your mind.” Hamilton sent her a wicked smile and refused to say another word, although he did remove his finger from her skin.

If you don't look at me right this minute, Brody McTavish, I'm going to ---" He swung on her. Had she not been standing flatfooted she would have stumbled back. Instead, she was rooted to the ground as suddenly he was in her face. "I've been listening to you and I've been looking at you for years," he said, his voice deep and thick with emotion. "I've been waiting for you to grow up." His voice faltered as he dropped his horse's reins. "Because I've been wanting to do this since you were sixteen." Grabbing her, he pulled her against his rock-hard body. His mouth dropped to hers. Her lips parted of their own accord, just as her arms wrapped around his neck. Her heart hammered against her ribs as he deepened the kiss and she heard herself moan.

There are pains too deep for words, but there’s touch to say what words can’t. ‘Can

Nor can one underestimate the lengths to which the Catholic hierarchy went to keep its ugly secrets to itself. One lay Catholic described it as follows: “Their structure and social chemistry is almost identical to the Mafia. There is a deep secrecy and a fierce loyalty to the organization.

Chapter 1 A lot of people lounge by pools in L.A., but few of them are truly immortal, no matter how hard they pretend with plastic surgery and exercise. Doyle was truly immortal and had been for over a thousand years. A thousand years of wars, assassinations, and political intrigue, and he’d been reduced to being eye candy in a thong bathing suit by the pool of the rich and famous. He lay at the edge of the pool, wearing almost nothing. Sunlight glittered across the blue, blue water of the pool. The light broke in a jagged dance across his body, as if some invisible hand stirred the light, turning it into a dozen tiny spotlights that coaxed Doyle’s dark body into colors I’d never known his skin could hold. He wasn’t black the way a human being is black, but more the way a dog is black. Watching the play of light on his skin, I realized I’d been wrong. His skin gleamed with blue highlights, a shine of midnight blue along the long muscular sweep of his calf, a flare of royal blue like a stroke of deep sky touched his back and shoulder. Purple to shame the darkest amethyst caressed his hip. How could I ever have thought his skin monochrome? He was a miracle of colors and light, strapped across a body that rippled and moved with muscles honed in wars fought centuries before I was born.

That fact alone should let you know just how deep a hole I was digging. Or would that be, already have dug? Yeah, already dug. I was about halfway to China and still throwing dirt up in the air.

To obey my queen in all things.” His voice was like his skin, dark. It made me think of molasses and other thick, sweet things. A voice so deep it could hit notes low enough to make my spine shiver.

Jean-Claude was watching me with his still eyes. I took a deep breath through my nose and let it out through my mouth. Enough for one night. “See you both tomorrow.” I turned and walked away. There was a group of tourists with cameras. One was sort of tentatively raised in my direction. “If you snap my picture, I will take the camera away from you and break it.” I smiled while I said it. The man lowered his camera uncertainly. “Geez, just a little picture.” “You’ve seen enough,” I said. “Move on, the show’s over.

In the empty halls of the castle now abandoned and silenced by time, they waltzed cheek to cheek over the ancient floor of dust with unknown stories buried deep in the soil below.

In their letters the two young men sign themselves, "yours affectionately," "yours with deep attachment," which between men—I suppose—means something. So noticeable was Madison's devotion to the most distinguished young man of the day, and a few years later so absorbed was he into the huge personality of his early friend's bitterest enemy, that John Randolph once exclaimed in wrath, "Madison always was some great man's mistress—first Hamilton's, then Jefferson's:" a remark which was safe in the days of our ancestors, when life was all work and no satiety.

the head. His vile words had gouged deep wounds in her heart, and she was glad to learn the officers had departed early. The idea of encountering Hamilton today was not one Estella relished.

Hamilton Pool, which is located near Austin, is one of the most remarkable sights of nature to be observed in Texas. It’s a natural spring that’s situated in limestone bedrock. Its water comes from an underground river. There’s a deep overhang in one of the walls of the cavern that’s of much interest to visitors. Over 100 years ago, the Hamilton Pool was completely covered by a dome that later collapsed. The Hamilton Pool is one of Texas’s many tourist attractions.

Chris Bowen, Labor’s federal shadow treasurer from the New South Wales Right, is a patron of the ACPPRC, or was until the 2016 Sam Dastyari affair (discussed later) when his name was removed from the website. Bowen has so far managed to fly under the radar but his Chinese links are wide and deep.28

Everyone thinks they want an extraordinary life, but you don’t. When standing knee-deep in yet another disaster, ordinary begins to look very good.

And O, my poor Despoina, do you think he ever hears The wail of hearts he has broken, the sound of human ill? He cares not for our virtues, our little hopes and fears, And how could it all go on, love, if he knew of laughter and tears? Ah, sweet, if a man could cheat him! If you could flee away Into some other country beyond the rosy West, To hide in the deep forests and be for ever at rest From the rankling hate of God and the outworn world's decay!

Even the deep sea Laughs at a day of despair

Penance (Scripture selection — Joel 2:12-13) The name of Gene Hamilton may be new to you if you are not from the archdiocese of New York or have not read A Priest Forever by Father Benedict Groeschel (published by Our Sunday Visitor in 1998). Gene was a seminarian for that archdiocese at St. Joseph’s Seminary, Dunwoodie. From all accounts he was a fine student, a friendly, sincere young man, eager to be a priest. He was diagnosed with cancer, and the final years of his life were a real cross for him — pain, decline, hopes way up after surgery and treatment only to have them dashed with another outbreak. In his brave struggle a saint emerged, and I use that word purposefully. In his pain, agony, and dwindling strength, a man of deep faith, indomitable hope, and genuine love arose; a seminarian of prayer, who never complained, thought more of the needs and difficulties of others than his own. A man driven by one desire: to be united with Jesus in his passion and death, hopefully, yearning to do so as a priest. There was a lot of longing for a miracle by his family, brother seminarians, friends and admirers; many, including doctors and other medical personnel, told the young man, “You’re going to beat this, Gene.” Dozens who just knew he was too good, too innocent, too pure and holy to die so young and painfully, prayed for his recovery. In January of 1997, Gene Hamilton was too ill to come on the pilgrimage here to Rome with the men from Dunwoodie. Bishop Edwin O’Brien, realistic and thoughtful man that he is, with the late Cardinal John O’Connor, approached the prefect of the Congregation for Catholic Education, the dicastery of the Holy See under which seminaries come, for permission to ordain

You are not defective, Brenna,” Aquila said. “You have simply been disappointed by those whom you should have been able to trust. It is a deep wound, my dear, but it is not one that cannot be healed.” That single conversation seeded her

Still, he wondered whether republican government could withstand popular frenzy and instill the deep respect for law and authority that obtained in monarchical systems and that would safeguard liberties.

I don’t want people’s beliefs and opinions about God. I want true knowledge of the true God. We all want the real thing though, don’t we? Deep down, we all crave the Absolute Truth, not just some nice, liberal idea that we think might make the world a better place. I don’t want to talk to my own unconscious, or my own subjective beliefs, then call it “God” … because it makes me feel good. I want to actually talk to God. I want the answers to all the big questions. I want to know what it’s really all about. What am I supposed to do with my life? How am I supposed to live? What’s the right thing to do? What’s the meaning of life? What’s the purpose of each and every one of us? What are the big explanations for everything? Is there a way to get all the way through to God, the true God?

There was no sure, steady decline into the water, but rather it felt like something was pulling them down. As if the titans the ship had been named after had wrapped a hand around her, and were drawing her deep into the depths of the ocean.