Denouement Quotes

One dictionary defines denouement as "a final part in which everything is made clear and no questions or surprises remain." By that definition, it is exactly the wrong word to describe this chapter. This chapter will make nothing clear; it will raise many questions; and it may even contain a surprise or two. But I say we call it the denouement anyway because the words sounds so sophisticated and French.

Sometimes I feel that I am destined always to be offstage whenever the main action occurs. That God has made me the victim of some cosmic practical joke, by assigning me little more than a walk-on part in my own life. Or sometimes I feel that my role is simply to be a spectator to other people's stories, and always to wander away at the most important moment, drifiting into the kitchen to make a cup of tea just as the denouement unfolds.

Everything is always happening all at once, in the present tense, forever, the beginning and the end and the denouement and the remaindering.

endings that are muted, but which echo longer in the memory than louder, more explosive denouements.

People are always in various stages of different dramas when you encounter them: freshly embarked on some, halfway or more through others. One is always approaching the denouement of this or that subplot of one’s life. And you, the stranger, entering the picture in all your blundering innocence, may well be the catalyst for some long-awaited climax.

When I read a novel my imagination starts off at a gallop and leaves the narrator hidden in a cloud of dust; I have to come jogging twenty miles back to the denouement.

Anticlimax is, of course, the warp and way of things. Real life seldom structures a decent denouement.

Every tragedy falls into two parts, — Complication and Unravelling or Denouement.

Do not permit yourself to fall in love with the end-game play to the exclusion of entire games. It is well to have the whole story of how it happened; the complete play, not the denouement only. Do not embrace the rag-time and vaudeville of chess.

A new story begins the moment an old one ends. But a denouement is a respite that calls us to stop the journey for a brief interlude - to eat, drink, sing, dance and tell our story to others.

After reading Edgar Allan Poe. Something the critics have not noticed: a new literary world pointing to the literature of the 20th Century. Scientific miracles, fables on the pattern A+ B, a clear-sighted, sickly literature. No more poetry but analytic fantasy. Something monomaniacal. Things playing a more important part than people; love giving away to deductions and other forms of ideas, style, subject and interest. The basis of the novel transferred from the heart to the head, from the passion to the idea, from the drama to the denouement.

But if we honestly name the passionate desires of our heart, and if we risk seeing those desires come to be, the plot of our life story will begin to move with greater intentionality. Yet the only way we can keep walking on that path is to allow our self moments to rest and celebrate the temporary climax of a story in denouement.

I liked it all, but most of all I liked the fact that although the play was entirely focused on Quintana there were, five evenings and two afternoons a week, these ninety full minutes, the run time of the play, during which she did not need to be dead. During which the question remained open. During which the denouement had yet to play out. During which the last scene played did not necessarily need to be played in the ICU overlooking the East River. During which the bells would not necessarily sound and the doors would not necessarily be locked at six. During which the last dialogue heard did not necessarily need to concern the vent. Like when someone dies, don't dwell on it.

A denouement is not a complete or fully resolved ending but a satisfying closure to a story. [in French translates 'an untying, a relaxing of a knot of complexity'] Denouement is the rest that comes when all the disparate plot lines of a story, gnarled and taut, have been untied and an order has come about that brings a new moment of shalom.

She felt the adagio from Joaquin Rodrigo’s Concierto de Aranjuez strumming at her inner thighs like a guitar, and then slowly moving upwards until it wrapped around her heart in its denouement.

One of our greatest failures in our busy, driven culture is that we don't celebrate the temporary untying of a complex narrative...What is your style of celebrating an ending? Do you only throw large parties after someone graduates, gets married, or dies? If so, then all the other endings in your story are lost in the wake of another day's busyness. Perhaps one of the reasons you and I don't party well, is that we don't know what to do with the tragedies that linger in our life...Can you imagine receiving an invitation "JOIN ME IN A CELEBRATION OF NO LONGER BELIEVING I'M STUPID"? We don't allow endings to be noted, let alone celebrated. Therefore we never allow denouement to be invigorate the upward movement of a new story.

But then, as anyone knows if she lives as long as I have, people rarely get the denouement they deserve. The world is a random, violent place, and those who expect justice or expect the just to be rewarded are deluded.

Kell's eyes went to the palace on last time, and he thought he could almost make out the shape of a man standing alone on a high balcony. At this distance, he was little more than a shadow, but Kell could see the band of gold glinting in his hair as a secong figure came to stand beside the king. Rhy raised his hand, and so did Kell, a single unspoken word between them. Anoshe.

Holmes laughed. "Watson insists that I am the dramatist in real life," said he. "Some touch of the artist wells up within me, and calls insistently for a well-staged performance. Surely our profession, Mr. Mac, would be a drab and sordid one if we did not sometimes set the scene so as to glorify our results. The blunt accusation, the brutal tap upon the shoulder - what can one make of such a denouement? But the quick inference, the subtle trap, the clever forecast of coming events, the triumphant vindication of bold theories - are these not the pride and the justification of our life's work? At the present moment you thrill with the glamour of the situation and the anticipation of the hunt. Where would be that thrill if I had been as definite as a timetable?

denouement.

The denouement is perhaps the most moving scene of her show Letting Go of God.

denouement.

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there was always, deep in the background, the feeling that something other than myself was involved. It was as though a breath of the great world of stars and endless space had touched me, or as if a spirit had invisibly entered the room—the spirit of one who had long been dead and yet was perpetually present in timelessness until far into the future. Denouements of this sort were wreathed with the halo of a numen.

Maybe the truth is the end has already been happening long before we arrived at the cabin and what we’re seeing, what we’ve been seeing, is not the fireworks of the world’s denouement but the final flickering sparks of our afterword.

Workshop Hermeticism, fiction for which the highest praise involves the words 'competent,' 'finished,' 'problem-free,' fiction over which Writing-Program pre- and proscriptions loom with the enclosing force of horizons: no character without Freudian trauma in accessible past, without near-diagnostic physical description; no image undissolved into regulation Updikean metaphor; no overture without a dramatized scene to 'show' what's 'told'; no denouement prior to an epiphany whose approach can be charted by and Freitag on any Macintosh.

There is a difference between knowledge and wisdom. Knowledge comes from books and wisdom from thinking. No doubt, knowledge might give you the power to speak, but wisdom helps you to know when one should not speak. They are two parallel things with different destinations.

I had not chosen to be single but love is rare and it is frequently unreciprocated. Without love I saw no reason to form a permanent attachment to any particular place. Love determined how humans arrayed themselves in space. Because it affixed people into their long-term arrangements, those around me viewed it as an eschatological event, messianic in its totality. My friends expressed a religious belief that it would arrive for me one day, as if love were something the universe owed to each of us, which no human could escape. I had known love, but having known love I knew how powerless I was to instigate it or ensure its duration. Still, I nurtured my idea of the future, which I thought of as the default denouement of my sexuality, and a destiny rather than a choice. The vision remained suspended, jewel-like in my mind, impervious to the storms of my actual experience, a crystalline point of arrival. But I knew that it did not arrive for everyone, and as I got older I began to worry that it would not arrive for me.

Tyl Ulenspiegel" is a hearty Flemish grabbag—dirt and folk and anarchism and Robin Hood-ness, Bosch and I suppose Rembrandt and a Flemish philosophical novel, and the final denouement even offers the concept of the gifted man who from the solitude of intelligence slips gratefully into ordinary human happiness, the progress from the "hero" to "a man.

lives of a number of English citizens. Churchill told the story, possibly apocryphal, of an ill-starred golfer who managed to direct a golf ball onto an adjacent beach. Colville summarized the denouement in his diary: “He took his niblick down to the beach, played the ball, and all that remained afterward was the ball, which returned safely to the green.

Wishes can bring the worst out of you if you allow them to conquer your morals

He has described in precise, measured words the beautiful desolation he feels at the close of novels where the message is that there is no end to human suffering, only endurance. He has spoken of endings that are muted, but which echo longer in the memory than louder, more explosive denouements. He has explained why it is that ambiguity touches his heart more nearly than the death and marriage style of finish that I prefer.

There is one thing that ought to be taught in all the colleges, Which is that people ought to be taught not to go around always making apologies. I don't mean the kind of apologies people make when they run over you or borrow five dollars or step on your feet, Because I think that is sort of sweet; No, I object to one kind of apology alone, Which is when people spend their time and yours apologizing for everything they own. You go to their house for a meal, And they apologize because the anchovies aren't caviar or the partridge is veal; They apologize privately for the crudeness of the other guests, And they apologize publicly for their wife's housekeeping or their husband's jests; If they give you a book by Dickens they apologize because it isn't by Scott, And if they take you to the theater, they apologize for the acting and the dialogue and the plot; They contain more milk of human kindness than the most capacious diary can, But if you are from out of town they apologize for everything local and if you are a foreigner they apologize for everything American. I dread these apologizers even as I am depicting them, I shudder as I think of the hours that must be spend in contradicting them, Because you are very rude if you let them emerge from an argument victorious, And when they say something of theirs is awful, it is your duty to convince them politely that it is magnificent and glorious, And what particularly bores me with them, Is that half the time you have to politely contradict them when you rudely agree with them, So I think there is one rule every host and hostess ought to keep with the comb and nail file and bicarbonate and aromatic spirits on a handy shelf, Which is don't spoil the denouement by telling the guests everything is terrible, but let them have the thrill of finding it out for themselves.

You already know how it ends. Endings, for you, are not tied to closure, they don’t represent the finish line but rather an intermediate position, like when a cyclist completes a lap but still has several rounds to go before the race is over. And really, that’s how literature for adults functions too, though we tend to ignore that fact; we tend to surrender to the superstition of the ending, the denouement, because sometimes we need to assume that stories end, obediently, on the final page.

All my romances, by some kind of collusion between their heroes, have invariably followed a prearranged pattern of mediocrity and tragedy, or more precisely, the tragic slant was imposed by their very mediocrity. I am ashamed to recall the way they started, and appalled by the nastiness of their denouements, while the middle part, the part that should have been the essence and core of this or that affair, has remained in my mind as a kind of listless shuffle seen through oozy water or sticky fog.

Far from marking a rupture with the past, the first two centuries of Islamic history have come to be seen as an extension of late antiquity—if not its triumphant denouement. This is especially true if we regard Muḥammad and the early caliphs as heirs to the Constantinian revolution—especially that distinctive marriage of empire and monotheism that Constantine brought about through his conversion in the fourth century. A by-product of this revolution was the use of state power to promote right belief and purge wrong belief.

A good cry was all I needed, and it served me well. It brought back that blissful feeling of childhood confidence–that somehow, through the unproductive act of crying, you are, in fact, achieving something. That something, of course, not being easily obtainable through any other productive measure, like hard work, for instance. Life was hard. Fuck, it was so hard. But crying, somehow temporarily, made it feel not so miserable. It was relieving, comparable to the denouement of an orgasm, before reality floods back in, where your mind is at total peace, if only for a moment.

He wondered what would happen if he abandoned the spinster’s offer of marriage, if he could make the story’s denouement true to the strange, nuanced, open-ended and infinitely interesting life he was sharing now with Constance Fenimore Woolson, if he could make his adventurer begin to need, or half-need, the domestic life of a lodger with an intelligent and reserved woman who was lonely, but not willing to be preyed upon. She would ask him for nothing as obvious as marriage; what she wanted was a close and satisfying and, if necessary, unconventional attachment with loyalty and care and affection as well as solitude and distance.

ominous murmur ran through the legion of onlookers, who had heretofore maintained an uncharacteristic silence. Their resentment was palpable. Five days later Coligny was assassinated, and the streets of Paris ran with blood as the entire Huguenot wedding party was hunted down and slaughtered in one of the most infamous episodes in French history, known today as the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre. But this horrific mass murder, which claimed more than five thousand martyrs over the course of a week, was no spontaneous bloodletting. Rather, it was the denouement of a carefully constructed plot that utilized the unsuspecting Margot as both victim and bait to lure Coligny and his faction to their doom, an intrigue planned, instigated, and executed by the one individual in France powerful enough

Heaven preserve us! what a hotch-potch!” cried Hubert. “Is that what they are doing nowadays? I very seldom read a novel, but when I glance into one, I’m sure to find some such stuff as that! Nothing irritates me so as the flatness of people’s imagination. Common life — I don’t say it’s a vision of bliss, but it’s better than that! Their stories are like the underside of a carpet, — nothing but the stringy grain of the tissue — a muddle of figures without shape and flowers without color. When I read a novel my imagination starts off at a gallop and leaves the narrator hidden in a cloud of dust; I have to come jogging twenty miles back to the denouement. Your clergyman here with his Romish sweetheart must be a very pretty fellow. Why didn’t he marry her first and convert her afterwards? Isn’t a clergyman after all, before all, a man?

Moon grew up, lost weight and became a famous singer, which proves that there is no justice in the universe, or that indeed, there is justice. Your interpretation of the denouement mostly depends on your race, creed, hair color, social and economic class and political proclivities -- whether or not you are a revisionist feminist and have a habit of cheering for the underdog. What is the moral of the story? Well, it's a tale of revenge, obviously written from the Chinese American girl's perspective. My intentions are to veer you away from teasing and humiliating little chubby Chinese girls like myself. And that one wanton act of humiliation you perpetrated on the fore or aft of that boat on my arrival may be one humiliating act too many. For although we are friendly neighbors, you don't really know me. You don't know the depth of my humiliation. And you don't know what I can do. You don't know what is beneath my doing.

Contemporary literature is a world I know little of. My father has taken me to task on this topic many times during our daily talks about books. He reads as much as I do, but more widely, and I have great respect for his opinions. He has described in precise, measured words the beautiful desolation he feels at the close of novels where the message is that there is no end to human suffering, only endurance. He has spoken of endings that are muted, but which echo longer in the memory than louder, more explosive denouements. He has explained why it is that ambiguity touches his heart more nearly than the death and marriage style of finish I prefer. During these talks, I listen with the gravest attention and nod my head, but I always continue in my old habits. Not that he blames me for it. There is one thing on which we are agreed: there are far too many books in the world to read in a single lifetime; you have to draw the line somewhere.

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick. Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived. Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness. Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.

In Aristotle’s classic form, outlined in The Poetics, drama takes a three-part form. In Part 1, which I call the World of the Story, we are introduced to the characters, the story’s setting, and the crisis that the hero faces. At the end of this part, the hero takes on a challenge—sometimes by choice, sometimes without choice. In Part 2, known as The Rising Action, we see the hero—and other characters—struggle to confront the challenge. They face one obstacle after another. Each obstacle sharpens their minds, tests their resolve, and pushes the story forward. These challenges get more and more intense. Finally, they achieve some breakthrough. Part 3, known as the Resolution and Denouement, brings the drama to closure. The hero and other characters begin to settle into a new way of living, often chastened but always wiser. All the issues get settled. In Cold Blood does not seem to follow a strict three-act format. The book is, after all, broken into four sections. But when we look closely, we see that the middle two sections show the rising action.

Economists have always been haunted by the spectre of ‘diminishing returns’. Ricardo had famously seen ‘diminishing returns’ in agriculture leading to a progressive fall in the rate of profit, a progressive shift of the terms of trade between manufacturing and agriculture in favour of the latter and the eventual denouement of a stationary state where further growth became impossible. Even Keynes in the aforementioned work saw ‘diminishing returns’ in food production as undermining the Eldorado even if the war had not done so. And yet none of these fears have come true. The terms of trade between manufacturing and agriculture have shown a secular tendency to shift against, rather than in favour of, the latter; and while the growth rate under capitalism has come down of late, this has nothing to do with any fall in the profit rate caused by ‘diminishing returns’. Likewise, the advanced capitalist world has no difficulty to this day in meeting its food requirements, belying the fears of Keynes. How then do we explain this contrast between fears and reality?

They heard Hugo ask if the plan for the hors d'oeuvres was still in operation, and they heard Colette ask about plucking the feathers off crows, and they heard Kevin complain that he didn't know whether to hold the birdpaper in his right hand or his left hand, and they heard Mr. Lesko insult Mrs. Morrow, and the bearded man sing a song to the woman with the crow-shaped hat, and they heard a man call for Bruce and a woman call for her mother and dozens of people whisper to and shout at, argue with and agree upon, angrily accuse and meekly defend, furiously compliment and kindly insult dozens of other people, both inside and outside the Hotel Denouement, whose names the Baudelaires recognized, forgot, and had never heard before. Each story had its story, and each story's story was unfathomable in the Baudelaire orphans' short journey, and many of the stories' stories are unfathomable to me, even after all these lonely years and all this lonely research. Perhaps some of these stories are clearer to you, because you have spied upon the people involved. Perhaps Mrs. Bass has changed her name and lives near you, or perhaps Mr. Remora's name is the same, and he lives far away. Perhaps Nero now works as a grocery store clerk, or Geraldine Julienne now teaches arts and crafts. Perhaps Charles and Sir are no longer partners, and you have had the occasion to study one of them as he sat across from you on a bus, or perhaps Hugo, Colette, and Kevin are still comrades, and you have followed these unfathomable people after noticing that one of them used both hands equally. Perhaps Mr. Lesko is now your neighbor, or Mrs. Morrow is now your sister, or your mother, or your aunt or wife or even your husband. Perhaps the noise you hear outside your door is a bearded man trying to climb into your window, or perhaps it is a woman in a crow-shaped hat hailing a taxi. Perhaps you have spotted the managers of the Hotel Denouement, or the judges of the High Court, or the waiters of Cafe Salmonella or the Anxious Clown, or perhaps you have met an expert on injustice or become one yourself. Perhaps the people in your unfathomable life, and their unfathomable stories, are clear to you as you make your way in the world, but when the elevator stopped for the last time, and the doors slid open to reveal the tilted roof of the Hotel Denouement, the Baudelaires felt as if they were balancing very delicately on a mysterious and perplexing heap of unfathomable mysteries.

No doubt even more unforeseen denouements lie in somebody's archive, though few remain to care about them.

He broke plot structure into three acts, coinciding with the audience need for intermission. The first act includes the story setup, popularly referred to as the “inciting incident.” The stakes continue to rise in the second act and include a false victory, that point where you think the story is over but it turns out it's not. The false victory is referred to as a major reversal because the trajectory of the story reverses. The climax comes in the third act, followed by the denouement, a French word meaning “to untie,” which perfectly describes the cleaning up of any loose ends that happens at the end of a narrative.

By 2008 the Bush administration had lost the battle. And the financial crisis clinched the impression of disaster. It was a stark historical denouement. In the space of only five years, both the foreign policy and the economic policy elite of the United States, the most powerful state on earth, had suffered humiliating failure. And, as if to compound the process of delegitimatization, in August 2008 American democracy made a mockery of itself too. As the world faced a financial crisis of global proportions, the Republicans chose as John McCain's vice presidential running mate the patently unqualified governor of Alaska, Sarah Palin, whose childlike perception of international affairs made her the laughingstock of the world. And the worst of it was that a large part of the American electorate didn't get the joke. They loved Palin.

The only future I'm good at predicting are those of the characters I write.

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Roger Ailes was himself a sexual predator who’d harassed Megyn Kelly and countless other women, as would emerge when he met his own moment of disgrace and denouement

By September 2004, Zuckerberg was referring to Parker as Facebook’s president, and Parker was steering Zuckerberg away from conventional venture capitalists. He told Benchmark and Google to back off, preferring to take a leaf out of Google’s own book; he wanted to raise capital from angels. His first port of call was an entrepreneur named Reid Hoffman, who had coached him through the Plaxo denouement. Hoffman declined to lead an investment in Facebook; he had himself founded a social network called LinkedIn, and there might be some rivalry. So Hoffman put Parker in touch with a Stanford friend named Peter Thiel, the co-founder of an online payments company called PayPal. Pretty soon, Thiel agreed to kick in $500,000 in exchange for 10.2 percent of the firm, with Hoffman providing a further $38,000.[11] A third social-networking entrepreneur named Mark Pincus also wrote a check for $38,000.

better with each page turned. He wanted to know how her story would read. He wanted to reach the denouement, the end. And he wanted to see if she had a sequel.

Tarot readings are like stories, you see-they have characters, conflict, action, climax, theme, and denouement.

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denouement.

Jackendoff and Lerdahl point out that large structures in music can be like dramatic arcs in narratives. The slow buildup of tension, a climax, and then denouement can be found in both musical pieces and stories. It may be that both music and language exploit a human predisposition to understand events in terms of tension and resolution.

Every fundamentalism focuses on end times, and Armageddon is, in a sense, a rhetorical trope, an emphatic and overwhelming conclusion, meant to wrap up and make tidy the mistaken wanderings of history. For a fundamentalist the end is one of the forms desire takes, a passion no different from lust or avarice, intense with longing and the need for fulfillment and relief. It’s like they’re horny for apocalypse. They get off on denouements, which partly explains why Hell House never amounted to much more than a series of murderous conclusions. It focused only on that part of a story where life finds itself fated. Inside every act a judgement was coiled. Real people with their ragged and uncertain lives, their stumbling desires, their bleak or blessed futures, would only break into the narrative, complicating the story, dragging it on endlessly.

The author also participated in Operation Uphold Democracy (in Haiti, a year after the catastrophic denouement of Operation Restore Hope in Somalia). ... Hope was not restored in Somalia. Democracy was not upheld in Haiti.

I wanted to know the denouement of your life story. I have no interest in the narrative.

Focus on the denouement of the purpose of life and act on the narrative.

Anticlimax is, of course, the warp and way of things. Real life seldom structures a decent denouement.

investigation. Whatever the outcome, the reporter knew that the denouement would be a stormy one. To

It is not to be imagined that William entered on this new chapter of his wedded life with rosy expectations. However, he had long ago given up expecting much of anything. Drama, as usually happens in real life, had ended not in tragic denouement, but in lassitude and anti-climax. In pity, in exasperation, in ironical apathy, he settled down to his accustomed round.

The Bible is not a fairy tale crafted by ancient people to give a sense of meaning to life. It is an account of reality. He calls it a story only because, amazingly, it turns out that reality itself is structured like a great drama: It has a beginning and an end; it features a struggle between good and evil; it reaches a climax and then resolves into a denouement and a finale. The cosmos is not just a succession of brute facts. It is the plotline of a grand story that God is telling through the verifiable events of history. Because

Irie stepped out into streets she’d known her whole life, along a route she’d walked a million times over. If someone asked her just then what memory was, what the purest definition of memory was, she would say this: the street you were on when you first jumped in a pile of dead leaves. She was walking it right now. With every fresh crunch came the memory of previous crunches. She was permeated by familiar smells: wet woodchip and gravel around the base of the tree, newly laid turd underneath the cover of soggy leaves. She was moved by these sensations. Despite opting for a life of dentistry, she had not yet lost all of the poetry in her soul, that is, she could still have the odd Proustian moment, note layers upon layers, though she often experienced them in periodontal terms. She got a twinge – as happens with a sensitive tooth, or in a ‘phantom tooth’, when the nerve is exposed – she felt a twinge walking past the garage, where she and Millat, aged thirteen, had passed one hundred and fifty pennies over the counter, stolen from an Iqbal jam-jar, in a desperate attempt to buy a packet of fags. She felt an ache (like a severe malocclusion, the pressure of one tooth upon another) when she passed the park where they had cycled as children, where they smoked their first joint, where he had kissed her once in the middle of a storm. Irie wished she could give herself over to these past-present fictions: wallow in them, make them sweeter, longer, particularly the kiss. But she had in her hand a cold key, and surrounding her lives that were stranger than fiction, funnier than fiction, crueller than fiction, and with consequences fiction can never have. She didn’t want to be involved in the long story of those lives, but she was, and she found herself dragged forward by the hair to their denouement, through the high road – Mali’s Kebabs, Mr Cheungs, Raj’s, Malkovich Bakeries – she could reel them off blindfold; and then down under pigeon-shit bridge and that long wide road that drops into Gladstone Park as if it’s falling into a green ocean. You could drown in memories like these, but she tried to swim free of them. She jumped over the small wall that fringed the Iqbal house, as she had a million times over, and rang the doorbell. Past tense, future imperfect.

Sunrise is different from sunset, a crescendo in the day’s symphony, rather than its denouement

In real life, stories didn't end in grand climaxes or tragic denouements. They simply faded--dim beneath the dust of duty, dark in the afterglow of burned-out lust.

Irie stepped out into streets she’d known her whole life, along a route she’d walked a million times over. If someone asked her just then what memory was, what the purest definition of memory was, she would say this: the street you were on when you first jumped in a pile of dead leaves. She was walking it right now. With every fresh crunch came the memory of previous crunches. She was permeated by familiar smells: wet woodchip and gravel around the base of the tree, newly laid turd underneath the cover of soggy leaves. She was moved by these sensations. Despite opting for a life of dentistry, she had not yet lost all of the poetry in her soul, that is, she could still have the odd Proustian moment, note layers upon layers, though she often experienced them in periodontal terms. She got a twinge – as happens with a sensitive tooth, or in a ‘phantom tooth’, when the nerve is exposed – she felt a twinge walking past the garage, where she and Millat, aged thirteen, had passed one hundred and fifty pennies over the counter, stolen from an Iqbal jam-jar, in a desperate attempt to buy a packet of fags. She felt an ache (like a severe malocclusion, the pressure of one tooth upon another) when she passed the park where they had cycled as children, where they smoked their first joint, where he had kissed her once in the middle of a storm. Irie wished she could give herself over to these past-present fictions: wallow in them, make them sweeter, longer, particularly the kiss. But she had in her hand a cold key, and surrounding her lives that were stranger than fiction, funnier than fiction, crueller than fiction, and with consequences fiction can never have. She didn’t want to be involved in the long story of those lives, but she was, and she found herself dragged forward by the hair to their denouement, through the high road – Mali’s Kebabs, Mr Cheungs, Raj’s, Malkovich Bakeries – she could reel them off blindfold; and then down under pigeon-shit bridge and that long wide road that drops into Gladstone Park as if it’s falling into a green ocean. You could drown in memories like these, but she tried to swim free of them. She jumped over the small wall that fringed the Iqbal house, as she had a million times over, and rang the doorbell. Past tense, future imperfect.

Once while we were watching the denouement scene of a David Suchet Poirot episode, he [my husband] said irritably, ‘Why do they all just sit there and let Poirot accuse them of stuff? I’d get up and walk out.

Although most of my own work has been as a novelist, I have greatly enjoyed the challenge of the short story. Much has to be achieved with limited means. There is not spacefor long and detailed descriptions of place, but the setting must still come alivefor the reader. Characterisation is as important as in the novel, but the essentialsof a personality must be established with an economy of words. The plot must be strongbut not too complex, and the denouement, to which every sentence of the narrative should inexorably lead, must surprise the reader but not leave him feeling cheated. All should command the most ingenious element of the short story: the shock of surprise. The good short story is accordingly difficult to write well, but in this busy ageit can provide one of the most satisfactory reading experiences.

From the den, they heard… like the busy whistling of a bird on a branch in springtime… a high-pitched breathy monologue, a squeaky soliloquy… Connor was talking, Connor was babbling, to Casey! They sat side by side on the den sofa – Casey, resting her head on her front paws, gazed off into the middle distance, while Conner looked down upon her from above and held forth. The mumble of little whispery syllables included, frequently, “Ay-ee,” followed by a deep breath, and then another arpeggio of nasally notes. The mother and the speech therapist couldn’t make out the subject, but they perceived emotion, syntax, punctuation, narrative arc, rising tension, and perhaps even denouement. Since Casey’s arrival, Connor had worked hard to speak loudly and clearly enough for his commands to be understood; now he seemed to have grasped the essence of speech as a medium for relaying one’s innermost thoughts and feelings to one’s closest friend.

I thank my Lord for giving me the spirit of writing and the wisdom of sharing my thoughts on reflection of humanity as the reformer of reality.

Possibility is a concubine of reality, but impossibility is the queen of imagination.

Human beings have an annoying habit of recognizing patterns in everything. We all find comfort in ways as we fear everything spontaneous. Yet, everything we do is experimental with null results, or every other innovation in life is merely an accident.

Everything you know about art is wrong, and everything that you think about art is also true. All that you know is you know nothing, and all that you can say about anything is because you are thinking; therefore, you are.

Only if the society makes thinking the axiom of their living, we might attain reformation in society than just reflection of society in literature.

I recently read that the traditional three-act story structure with climax and denouement is reflective of the male orgasm. Which makes sense since climaxing, for men, is the heart of fucking. But that isn’t true for most women. It isn’t for me. I am far more interested in the story behind the sex, the setting and characters—all of the ways we strip down to nothing before entering each other’s bodies. Pleasure, of course, is the point. But so is its proximity to everything else. To truth and discovery, opening up and letting go.

The denouement is the moment when all of the knots of a story are untied, and all the threads are unraveled, and everything is laid out clearly for the world to see. But the denouement should not be confused with the end of the story...It is often the second-to-last event, or the penultimate peril.

Cr nn bsio t, Philaen? Calva es. Cr nn bsio t, Philaen? Rfa es. Cr nn bsio t, Philaen? Lusca es. Martial Epig. 2.33: The Epigrams are usually referenced, as here, by book and poem number; this poem, targeted at poor Philaenis, had an obscene denouement in its fourth and final verse, which I have dutifully omitted! The striking repetition, the technical term for which is ANAPHORA, was a favorite poetic and rhetorical device, typically used to achieve some sort of emphasis. Meter: hendecasyllabic, an “11-syllable” verse rhythm often employed by Catullus and Martial.

[on sponsored elections] Thus the dramatic denouement of the election is voter turnout, which measures the ability of the forces of democracy and peace (the army) to overcome rebel threats. [...] "Off the agenda" for the government in its own sponsored elections are all of the basic parameters that make an election meaningful or meaningless prior to the election-day proceedings. These include: (1) freedom of speech and assembly; (2) freedom of the press; (3) freedom to organize and maintain intermediate economic, social, and political groups (unions, peasant organizations, political clubs, student and teacher associations, etc.); (4) freedom to form political parties, organize members, put forward candidates, and campaign without fear of extreme violence; and (5) the absence of state terror and a climate of fear among the public. Also off the agenda is the election-day "coercion package" that may explain turnout in terms other than devotion to the army and its plans, including any legal requirement to vote, and explicit or implicit threats for not voting.

Texts are musical in that they take time, and the time texts take is musical time. The time of music and the time of texts always involve reaching for the next moment. Music is always moving toward the next note, and we are always reading beyond the individual word. Each sentence compels us to move forward; each paragraph carries us along to the denouement.

Lucía, letting out a scream, collapsed into Ana's arms, feeling her comforting kiss.

He had smiled, but his eyes were full of sad knowledge. He had known that nothing would be the same for him again, that his stay in the hospital was not to be the brief interlude he had bracingly told her mother it would be. And he had not come home. And maybe I should not go home, she thought, her heart breaking with sorrow. And beneath the sorrow she felt vividly unsafe, as she did when she saw that the plot of a novel would finally resolve itself, and how this might be brought about.

denouement.

But Hulda was like picking up a book with no description, fanfare, or title and discovering it got better and better with each page turned. He wanted to know how her story would read. He wanted to reach the denouement, the end. And he wanted to see if she had a sequel.

Your reality is not gone, but the image of it is not with you anymore. I will be your mirror of reality; try to see me. I will guide you through this; try to hear me. You don’t know if you can make a better world for yourself, but often does your world makes itself.

She sat next to him, looking into his eyes, with questions she knew answers herself. “Do you think we have a future?” she asked. “I am not sure,” said the boy holding her hand graciously and pressed them on his cheeks, “but we do have a past, and it is just because of that past that I want to be with you. The future is just a commodity of past actions that gives shape to future events. Future is never independent.” “You are dreaming something out of reality.” “And you deny that fact that it is also your dream.” “We often see dreams in our reality, but there is too much purpose in reality” “Doesn’t it depend on the way we create our reality?” “But before that, you must know if your reality is approved by others” “We all have different reality? “The question is, why should we?

One of the major tragedies with people is that they treat honesty as an attribute where it is an attitude, so where one should be commended for it, they are often convicted for it.

There is no light in knowledge unless it illuminates the life of mankind.

Oh, that is nice, dear,” she said, beaming not only with lips but also with her eyes, “We often see reality in dreams, where we hardly see the purpose in reality.” “Doesn’t it depend on the way we perceive reality?” said the boy “But before that, you must know if it is your reality” “Do we all have the same reality? “The question is, why don’t we?” she said looking into the boy’s eyes.

Something about this place screams denouement.

The inevitability of death transpires us to acknowledge the absurdity of the worldly existence. Hope precipitates with this awareness as we realize the futility of materialism, including the possession of self as a body in the meaningless world of nothingness. We see death as a greater event than the life itself having meaning as a denouement, freeing us from the clinches of our desires, despairs and memories. We mustn’t attach hope to exterior desires but rather relate it to the inwardness in order to prevent ourselves from the never-ending chase for things which are incidental to existence and not the existence itself.

It’s the end of the day, the stars are coming out one by one, and the night has already given the sky a positively exhilarating depth. I love this regular denouement; the night calls the earth back to the sky and gives it a portion of infinity almost equal to its own. I killed at night, and ever since I’ve had night’s immensity for an accomplice.

If, in order to understand precisely what has happened, the spectators have to reflect, even for a few moments, upon the various stages of procedure which led up to the denouement, it is certain that, from an artistic point of view, the presentation must be unsatisfactory.

A sobering denouement had to come...exponential growth is a potent delusion-maker, and in 1999, 10 years after the Nikkei’s peak, I was thinking about the Japanese experience as we were waiting to claim our rental car at San Francisco airport. Silicon Valley was years into its first dotcom bubble, and even with advance reservations people had to wait for the just-returned cars to get serviced and released again into the halting traffic on the clogged Bayshore freeway. Mindful of the Japanese experience, I was thinking that every year after 1995 might be the last spell of what Alan Greenspan famously called irrational exuberance, but it was not in 1996 or 1997 or 1998. And even more so than a decade earlier, there were many economists ready to assure American investors that this spell of exponential growth was really different, that the old rules do not apply in the New Economy where endless rapid growth will readily continue.

Neither were you, unless of course I am wrong, in which case welcome to the world, little baby, and congratulations on learning to read so early in life. But if you were not born yesterday, and you have read anything about the Baudelaire children’s lives, then you cannot be surprised that this happy moment was almost immediately cut short by the appearance of a most unwelcome person at the moment the children were led through the fog of steam coming from the laundry room funnel and through the entrance of the Hotel Denouement as the one loud Wrong! faded into nothing

JULY 24 The alarm found me in the Foreign Office after a press conference. In the shelter I was surrounded by foreign correspondents. Among them was the American author Erskine Caldwell. I remember his stories—cruel and humane. There is much of the clay and of the master about him. At two a.m. he put on a helmet and went off to broadcast for America. Werth had been in Paris and in London, another Englishman had been in Spain; these are specialists on war and bombs. Some of them are in a skeptical mood: they fear a “lightning” denouement. In the theaters the actors take turns as watchmen in anti-air defense. An air-alarm, and lo, Lope de Vega Spaniards run up the roof with a hose.