Devil's Bridge Quotes

Hold hands with the devil until you are both over the bridge. Or kill the devil and burn the bridge so no one can get to you.

I burned by bridges so the devil couldn't follow me.

You still waste time with those things, Lenu? We are flying over a ball of fire. The part that has cooled floats on the lava. On that part we construct the buildings, the bridges, and the streets, and every so often the lava comes out of Vesuvius or causes an earthquake that destroys everything. There are microbes everywhere that make us sick and die. There are wars. There is a poverty that makes us all cruel. Every second something might happen that will cause you such suffering that you'll never have enough tears. And what are you doing? A theology course in which you struggle to understand what the Holy Spirit is? Forget it, it was the Devil who invented the world, not the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Do you want to see the string of pearls that Stefano gave me?

Never greet a devil till you meet one or cross a bridge before you've reached it. Ten times out of nine, thing aren't as bad as we fear them to be.

It feels like I’ll do anything for you. Jump off a bridge for you, turn myself inside out for you. It feels like madness, and I never want it to end.” Cole considers this, his dark eyes roaming over my face. “Then I must be in love,” he says. “Because that’s what I feel, too.

So I have 8 to 10 screenplays written and unproduced. And frankly, some of them are my favorite stories. I have a Western version of The Count Of Monte Cristo where the count has a clockwork hand. I have a screenplay called Mephisto's Bridge about a Faustian deal with the devil. I love them all.

If I could remove one thing from the world and replace it with something else, I would erase politics and put art in its place. That way, art teachers would rule the world. And since art is the most supreme form of love, beautiful colors and imagery would weave bridges for peace wherever there are walls. Artists, who are naturally heart-driven, would decorate the world with their love, and in that love — poverty, hunger, lines of division, and wars would vanish from the earth forever. Children of the earth would then be free to play, imagine, create, build and grow without bloodshed, terror and fear.

Once the soul has left the body it had to walk across a bridge as narrow as a knife edge, with paradise on the right and, on the left, a series of circles that lead down into the darkness inside the earth. Before crossing the bridge, each person had to place all his virtues in his right hand and all his sins in his left, and the imbalance between the two meant that the person always fell towards the side to which his actions on Earth had inclined him.

It was in America that horses first roamed. A million years before the birth of man, they grazed the vast plains of wiry grass and crossed to other continents over bridges of rock soon severed by retreating ice. They first knew man as the hunted knows the hunter, for long before he saw them as a means to killing other beasts, man killed them for their meat. Paintings on the walls of caves showed how. Lions and bears would turn and fight and that was the moment men speared them. But the horse was a creature of flight not fight and, with a simple deadly logic, the hunter used flight to destroy it. Whole herds were driven hurtling headlong to their deaths from the tops of cliffs. Deposits of their broken bones bore testimony. And though later he came pretending friendship, the alliance with man would ever be but fragile, for the fear he'd struck into their hearts was too deep to be dislodged. Since that neolithic moment when first a horse was haltered, there were those among men who understood this. They could see into the creature's soul and soothe the wounds they found there. Often they were seen as witches and perhaps they were. Some wrought their magic with the bleached bones of toads, plucked from moonlit streams. Others, it was said, could with but a glance root the hooves of a working team to the earth they plowed. There were gypsies and showmen, shamans and charlatans. And those who truly had the gift were wont to guard it wisely, for it was said that he who drove the devil out, might also drive him in. The owner of a horse you calmed might shake your hand then dance around the flames while they burned you in the village square. For secrets uttered softly into pricked and troubles ears, these men were known as Whisperers.

Consider the road, long and forked as the Devil’s own tongue. Consider the Devil, burning every bridge; Placing in every tree a black bird. In every bird a black thought.

They are in hell, but the devil is on their side.

It is easier to cross a burning bridge with God than a safe highway with the Devil.

The feedback from the speakers changes and begins blasting death metal music so loudly into the sky that I swear the bridge suspensions are vibrating. The twins were in charge of the music selection. I catch sight of them on the side of the bridge, each with an arm raised, holding up their forefingers and pinkies in a devil sign, head-banging to the beat. They’re mouthing the words to the garbled voice screaming over the intense electric guitar and drums blasting out of the speakers. They might look pretty badass if it weren’t for their hobo clown outfits. It’s the loudest party the Bay Area has ever heard.

In times of adversity Satan will seek to plant the thought in our minds that God is angry with us and is disciplining us out of wrath. Here is another instance when we need to preach the gospel to ourselves. It is the gospel that will reassure that the penalty for our sins has been paid, that God's justice has been fully satisfied. It is the gospel that supplies a good part of the armor of God with which we are to stand against the accusing attacks of the Devil (see Ephesians 6:13-17).

There was no room for dust devils in the laws of physics, as least in the rigid form in which they were usually taught. There is a kind of unspoken collusion going on in mainstream science education: you get your competent but bored, insecure and hence stodgy teacher talking to an audience divided between engineering students, who are going to be responsible for making bridges that won’t fall down or airplanes that won’t suddenly plunge vertically into the ground at six hundred miles an hour, and who by definition get sweaty palms and vindictive attitudes when their teacher suddenly veers off track and begins raving about wild and completely nonintuitive phenomena; and physics students, who derive much of their self-esteem from knowing that they are smarter and morally purer than the engineering students, and who by definition don’t want to hear about anything that makes no fucking sense. This collusion results in the professor saying: (something along the lines of) dust is heavier than air, therefore it falls until it hits the ground. That’s all there is to know about dust. The engineers love it because they like their issues dead and crucified like butterflies under glass. The physicists love it because they want to think they understand everything. No one asks difficult questions. And outside the windows, the dust devils continue to gambol across the campus.

But, along with the street lamp, everything breathes deceit. It lies all the time, this Nevsky Prospect, but most of all at the time when night heaves its dense mass upon it and sets off the white and pale yellow walls of the houses, when the whole city turns into a rumbling and brilliance, myriads of carriages tumble from the bridges, postillions shout and bounce on their horses, and the devil himself lights the lamps only so as to show everything not as it really looks.

The Devil sends the precipices; God sends the bridges! When you come across a precipice, look for the bridge; it is somewhere there!

God, I hated him. I mean, I’d definitely jump off a bridge for him, but…

But the guarding of our desires is more than fighting a rear-guard defensive action against temptations from the world, the flesh, and the devil. We must take the offensive. Paul directs us to set our hearts on things above, that is, on spiritual values (Colossians 3:1).

I gave you a chance to walk away and you didn’t take it. Instead, you thought you could touch what’s mine. Fuck what’s mine. For that, there’s no devil in hell or god in heaven who can save you. Burn, motherfucker.

I was just going over London Bridge and I saw someone had attacked the Madonna's statue. Knocked off the baby's head.’ ‘That was done a while back. It would be that devil Cranmer. You know what he is when he's taken a drink.

Before they crossed the bridge, they went down to have a look at the chalk stream, which was fringed with reeds, watercress, and yellow flag irises. The water flowing gently over the pebbled bed was gin clear, having been filtered through the Hampshire chalk hills.

As high as the fire in me burns, Evie, I will stoke it in you." "Sebastian..."She strained a little, and he pinned her more firmly against the table. "It's my right to kiss you," he reminded her. "whenever I want, for as long as I want. That was our bargain." She threw an agitated glance around the room, and he read her thoughts easily. "I don't give a damn if anyone sees us. You're my wife." A smile chased across his lips. "My better half, to be certain." Leaning over her, he nuzzled into the fine tendrils that strayed over her forehead. His breath was hot and soft on her skin. "My prize... my pleasure and pain... my endless desire. I've never known anyone like you, Evie." His lips touched gently at the bridge of her nose and slid down to the tip. "You dare to make demands of me that no other woman would think of asking. And for now, I'll pay your price, love. But later you'll pay mine... over and over..." He caught her trembling lips with his, his hands cupping the back of her head.

It is easy—terribly easy—to shake a man’s faith in himself. To take advantage of that to break a man’s spirit is devil’s work. —George Bernard Shaw, Candida

Washington Bridge. The components were then lowered into the Thirtieth Street hole by a special crane that could withstand

No matter how much we pretend otherwise—mothers, daughters, grandmothers—there is always a part of us deep down inside that remains the little girl we once were.

The truth is never as dangerous as a lie in the long run. I truly believe the truth sets us free.

Let us not forget, then, that we, as a community, are all responsible for watching our children.

It is nearly impossible to bridge this epistemic divide with good arguments because of the fear that reading will introduce confusion into the reader’s mind or bring her into direct contact with the devil.

Olmsted’s greatest concern, however, was that the main, Jackson Park portion of the exposition simply was not fun. “There is too much appearance of an impatient and tired doing of sight-seeing duty. A stint to be got through before it is time to go home. The crowd has a melancholy air in this respect, and strenuous measures should be taken to overcome it.” Just as Olmsted sought to conjure an aura of mystery in his landscape, so here he urged the engineering of seemingly accidental moments of charm. The concerts and parades were helpful but were of too “stated or programmed” a nature. What Olmsted wanted were “minor incidents … of a less evidently prepared character; less formal, more apparently spontaneous and incidental.” He envisioned French horn players on the Wooded Island, their music drifting across the waters. He wanted Chinese lanterns strung from boats and bridges alike. “Why not skipping and dancing masqueraders with tambourines, such as one sees in Italy? Even lemonade peddlers would help if moving about in picturesque dresses; or cake-sellers, appearing as cooks, with flat cap, and in spotless white from top to toe?” On nights when big events in Jackson Park drew visitors away from the Midway, “could not several of the many varieties of ‘heathen,’ black, white and yellow, be cheaply hired to mingle, unobtrusively, but in full native costume, with the crowd on the Main Court?

You still waste time with those things, Lenù? We are flying over a ball of fire. The part that has cooled floats on lava. On that part we construct buildings, the bridges, and the streets, and every so often the lava comes out of Vesuvius or causes an earthquake that destroys everything. There are microbes everywhere that make us sick and die. There are wars. There is a poverty that makes us cruel. Every second something might happen that will cause you such suffering that you'll never have enough tears. And what are you doing? A theology course in which you struggle to understand what the Holy Spirit is? Forget it, it was the Devil who invented the world, not the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

Within the fair’s buildings visitors encountered devices and concepts new to them and to the world. They heard live music played by an orchestra in New York and transmitted to the fair by long-distance telephone. They saw the first moving pictures on Edison’s Kinetoscope, and they watched, stunned, as lightning chattered from Nikola Tesla’s body. They saw even more ungodly things—the first zipper; the first-ever all-electric kitchen, which included an automatic dishwasher; and a box purporting to contain everything a cook would need to make pancakes, under the brand name Aunt Jemima’s. They sampled a new, oddly flavored gum called Juicy Fruit, and caramel-coated popcorn called Cracker Jack. A new cereal, Shredded Wheat, seemed unlikely to succeed—“shredded doormat,” some called it—but a new beer did well, winning the exposition’s top beer award. Forever afterward, its brewer called it Pabst Blue Ribbon. Visitors also encountered the latest and arguably most important organizational invention of the century, the vertical file, created by Melvil Dewey, inventor of the Dewey Decimal System. Sprinkled among these exhibits were novelties of all kinds. A locomotive made of spooled silk. A suspension bridge built out of Kirk’s Soap. A giant map of the United States made of pickles. Prune makers sent along a full-scale knight on horseback sculpted out of prunes, and the Avery Salt Mines of Louisiana displayed a copy of the Statue of Liberty carved from a block of salt. Visitors dubbed it “Lot’s Wife.

Walking back across the St-Esprit bridge, to the ghetto I'd instinctively gravitated toward, I mentally erected a more appropriate statue on the square. It would depict an unknown Sephardic Jew, kneeling over a stone tripod covered with crushed cacao beans destined for a cup of chocolate for one of the gentiles of Bayonne. It would be a symbolic piece, executed in smooth, chocolate-hued marble, and dedicated to all the other forgotten heroes--coffee-drinking Sufi dervishes, peyote-eating Native Americans, Mexican hemp-smokers--who, throughout history, have faced the wrath of all the sultans, drug czars, and Vatican clerics who have resorted to any spurious pretext to squelch one of the most venerable and misunderstood of human drives: the desire to escape, however briefly, everyday consciousness.

I-I just want to be safe from him. From all of them.” Sebastian drew his head back to look down into her flushed face. “You are safe,” he said in a low voice. He lifted one of his hands to her face, caressing the plane of her cheekbone, letting his fingertip follow the trail of pale golden freckles across the bridge of her nose. As her lashes fluttered downward, he stroked the slender arcs of her brows, and cradled the side of her face in his palm. “Evie,” he murmured. “I swear on my life, you will never feel pain from my hands. I may prove a devil of a husband in every other regard… but I wouldn’t hurt you that way. You must believe that.” The delicate nerves of her skin drank in sensations thirstily… his touch, the erotic waft of his breath against her lips. Evie was afraid to open her eyes, or to do anything that might interrupt the moment. “Yes,” she managed to whisper. “Yes… I—” There was the sweet shock of a probing kiss against her lips… another… She opened to him with a slight gasp.

After all, life doesn’t offer a man much. You work like the devil and think you’re getting on, and suddenly you discover that you’ve only been getting yourself tied up. A million details drink you dry. Your life keeps going for things you don’t want, and all the while you are being built alive into a social structure you don’t care a rap about.

For Christ says: 'I am the Way by which one comes to the Father; there is no other way. I and no one else am the Truth and the Life.' You must take this road in order to hold to this Man and to persevere in this faith and confession. You must travel it in suffering and death, saying: 'I know other help or counsel, no salvation or comfort, no way or path, except Christ my Lord alone, who suffered, died, rose, and ascended to heaven for me. I will stay on this road all the way, even though nothing but the devil, death, and hell were under and before me. For this is surely the right road and bridge; it is firmer and safer than any stone or iron structure. And heaven and earth would have to collapse before this road would ever deceive me or lead me astray.

I suppose… I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. But knowing what I do of your past… I assumed…” Her lame attempt at an apology seemed to erode the remnants of Sebastian’s self-control. “Well, your assumption was wrong! If you haven’t yet noticed, I’m busier than the devil in a high wind, every minute of the day. I don’t have the damned time for a tumble. And if I did—” He stopped abruptly. All semblance of the elegant viscount Evie had once watched from afar in Lord Westcliff’s drawing room had vanished. He was rumpled and bruised and furious. And he wasn’t breathing at all well. “If I did—” He broke off again, a flush crossing the crests of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Evie saw the exact moment when his self-restraint snapped. Alarm jolted through her, and she lurched toward the closed door. Before she had even made a step, she found herself seized and pinned against the wall by his body and hands. The smell of sweat-dampened linen and healthy, aroused male filled her nostrils. Once he had caught her, Sebastian pressed his parted lips against the thin skin of her temple. His breath snagged. Another moment of stillness. Evie felt the electrifying touch of his tongue at the very tip of her eyebrow. He breathed against the tiny wet spot, a waft of hellfire that sent chills through her entire body. Slowly he brought his mouth to her ear, and traced the intricate inner edges. His whisper seemed to come from the darkest recesses of her own mind. “If I did, Evie… then by now I would have shredded your clothes with my hands and teeth until you were naked. By now I would have pushed you down to the carpet, and put my hands beneath your breasts and lifted them up to my mouth. I would be kissing them… licking them… until the tips were like hard little berries, and then I would bite them so gently…” Evie felt herself drift into a slow half swoon as he continued in a ragged murmur. “… I would kiss my way down to your thighs… inch by inch… and when I reached those sweet red curls, I would lick through them, deeper and deeper, until I found the little pearl of your clitoris… and I would rest my tongue on it until I felt it throb. I would circle it, and stroke it… I’d lick until you started to beg. And then I would suck you. But not hard. I wouldn’t be that kind. I would do it so lightly, so tenderly, that you would start screaming with the need to come… I would put my tongue inside you… taste you… eat you. I wouldn’t stop until your entire body was wet and shaking. And when I had tortured you enough, I would open your legs and come inside you, and take you… take you…” Sebastian stopped, anchoring her against the wall while they both remained frozen, aroused, panting. At length, he spoke in a nearly inaudible voice. “You’re wet, aren’t you?” Had it been physically possible to blush any harder, Evie would have. Her skin burned with violated modesty as she understood what he was asking. She tipped her chin in the tiniest of nods. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything on this earth.

MY DREAM If I could remove one thing from the world and replace it with something else, I would erase politics and put art in its place. That way, art teachers would rule the world. And since art is the most supreme form of love, beautiful colors and imagery would weave bridges for peace wherever there are walls. Artists, who are naturally heart-driven, would decorate the world with their love, and in that love — poverty, hunger, lines of division, and wars would vanish from the earth forever. Children of the earth would then be free to play, imagine, create, build and grow without bloodshed, terror and fear. Our evolution depends on our memory. If we keep forgetting the mistakes of the past, only to keep repeating them, then we will never change. And if we keep recycling through the exact same kind of leaders— the kind who do not propel us forward, but only hold us back—then perhaps what we really need now is a completely different style of leadership altogether. We need heart-driven leaders, not strictly mind-driven ones. We need compassionate humanitarians, not greedy businessmen. Peacemakers, not war instigators. We need unity, not division. Angels, not devils.

You've been a pain in my ass since you were a kid." Not the goodbye speech I was hoping for. "It's true." He nodded. "You've been a fucking pain in my goddamn ass. Throughout your whole childhood, you pushed my buttons. You acted out and gave me every gray hair on my head." "Is this supposed to be an inspirational goodbye, because--" "Just shut your hole and let me finish, all right?" he barked. "Yes, sir." He shifted his feet side to side before pinching the bridge of his nose. When he locked eyes with mine, he stare was filled with tears, and I swore I hadn't ever seen my grandfather cry. "I just want you to know that you got all those characteristics from me. The good, the bad, and the messed-up parts. You're a mirror of your old man, Ian, and I wouldn't want you to be anything other than who you are. So you go out to Los Angeles, and you give them fucking hell, okay? You be a pain in their ass like the damn devil you are. Push their buttons. Push the whole world's buttons until you get that dream of yours. You get that success, and you hold on tight to it. Don't you dare look back to this place until you truly need to, but when you need to look back, we'll be here waiting.

The last of the warm Christmassy feeling seemed to leave the room, and there she stood in the doorway: the Beast in Ocher. Also known as “the she-devil with the Hermès scarf,” in ordinary life Philippa Adelaide Spencer, or Granny, as Grayson and Florence called her. Apparently her friends at the bridge club knew her as Peachy Pippa, but I wasn’t going to believe that until I heard it with my own ears.

She stepped onto the Devil’s Bridge arching over the deadly crater lake—a round pool of water beaming with bioluminescent light; the light of the dead. Like many other namesakes, the semi-circular metal structure connected the diameter of the small lake, reflecting in the water beneath it. Together, the bridge and its mirror became an immense sphere of sky and water. Blue and green combining into turquoise—always turquoise, the bane of her life.

It would be difficult to find a man still on the early side of his thirties who had acquired wealth and power at the speed that Tom Severin had. He'd started as a mechanical engineer designing engines, then progressed to railway bridges, and had eventually built his own railway line, all with the apparent ease of a boy playing leapfrog. Severin could be generous and considerate, but his better qualities were unanchored by anything resembling a conscience.

His own life was no longer a single story but part of a mural, which was a falling together of accomplices. Patrick saw a wondrous night web-all of these fragments of a human order, something ungoverned by the family he was born into or the headlines of the day. A nun on a bridge, a dare-devil who was unable to sleep without drink, a boy watching a fire from his bed at night,an actress who ran away with a millionaire- the detritus and chaos of the age was realigned.

If you first give the devil his due, looking at his arguments from his perspective, you can (1) find the value in them, and learn something in the process, or (2) hone your positions against them (if you still believe they are wrong) and strengthen your arguments further against challenge. This will make you much stronger. Then you will no longer have to misrepresent your opponent’s position (and may well have bridged at least part of the gap between the two of you). You will also be much better at withstanding your own doubts.

On his way home, Giberson met the Devil himself at a bridge. The Devil told him to play his violin, and while Giberson played the Devil danced. Then the Devil played the violin while Giberson danced. Giberson was the kind of dancer of whom people said things like “I seen him put a looking glass on the floor and dance on it—he was that light when he danced.” But the Devil danced even more lightly and beautifully than Giberson, and the Devil played the violin more sweetly. Giberson conceded defeat. The Devil then said that he was going to take Giberson to Hell unless he could play a tune that the Devil had never heard. Out of the air, by Giberson’s account, a tune came to him—a beautiful theme that neither Giberson nor the Devil had ever heard. The Devil let him go. That is what Giberson told people on the following day and for the rest of his life. The tune is known in the Pine Barrens as Sammy Giberson’s Air Tune. No one, of course, knows how it goes, but the Air Tune is there, everywhere, just beyond hearing. Giberson drank a lot, like many of the fiddlers of his time. Fred

The feedback from the speakers changes and begins blasting death metal music so loudly into the sky that I swear the bridge suspensions are vibrating. The twins were in charge of the music selection. I catch sight of them on the side of the bridge, each with an arm raised, holding up their forefingers and pinkies in a devil sign, head-banging to the beat. They’re mouthing the words to the garbled voice screaming over the intense electric guitar and drums blasting out of the speakers. They might look pretty badass if it weren’t for their hobo clown outfits. It’s the loudest party the Bay Area has ever heard.

He reached the Devil’s River Bridge at sundown and half way across he pulled the cruiser to a halt and turned on the rooflights and got out and shut the door and walked around in front of the vehicle and stood leaning on the aluminum pipe that served for the top guardrail. Watching the sun set into the blue reservoir beyond the railroad bridge to the west. A westbound semi coming around the long curve of the span downshifted when the lights came into view. The driver leaned from the window as he passed. Dont jump, Sheriff. She aint worth it. Then he was gone in a long suck of wind, the diesel engine winding up and the driver double clutching and shifting gears. Bell smiled. Truth of the matter is, he said, she is.

The girl was staring at the muddy river as if it were sweeping away her memories. Corso saw her smile, thoughtfully, absently. "I never knew an impartial god. Or devil." She turned to him suddenly - her earlier thoughts seemed to have washed downstream. "Do you believe in the Devil, Corso?" He looked at her intently, but the river had also swept away the images that had filled her eyes seconds before. All he could see there now was liquid green, and light. “I believe in stupidity and ignorance.” He smiled wearily at the girl. They had continued walking and were now on the wooden boards of the Pont des Arts. The girl stopped and leaned on the metal rail, by a street artist selling tiny water colours.” "I like this bridge," she said. "No cars. Only lovers, and old ladies in hats. People with nothing to do. This bridge has absolutely no common sense.

He concluded the speech with an irritated motion of his hands. Unfortunately, Evie had been conditioned by too many encounters with Uncle Peregrine to discern between angry gestures and the beginnings of a physical attack. She flinched instinctively, her own arms flying up to shield her head. When the expected pain of a blow did not come, she let out a breath and tentatively lowered her arms to find Sebastian staring at her with blank astonishment. Then his face went dark. “Evie,” he said, his voice containing a bladelike ferocity that frightened her. “Did you think I was about to…Christ. Someone hit you. Someone hit you in the past—who the hell was it?” He reached for her suddenly—too suddenly—and she stumbled backward, coming up hard against the wall. Sebastian went very still. “Goddamn,” he whispered. Appearing to struggle with some powerful emotion, he stared at her intently. After a long moment, he spoke softly. “I would never strike a woman. I would never harm you. You know that, don’t you?” Transfixed by the light, glittering eyes that held hers with such intensity, Evie couldn’t move or make a sound. She started as he approached her slowly. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “Let me come to you. It’s all right. Easy.” One of his arms slid around her, while he used his free hand to smooth her hair, and then she was breathing, sighing, as relief flowed through her. Sebastian brought her closer against him, his mouth brushing her temple. “Who was it?” he asked. “M-my uncle,” she managed to say. The motion of his hand on her back paused as he heard her stammer. “Maybrick?” he asked patiently. “No, th-the other one.” “Stubbins.” “Yes.” Evie closed her eyes in pleasure as his other arm slid around her. Clasped against Sebastian’s hard chest, with her cheek tucked against his shoulder, she inhaled the scent of clean male skin, and the subtle touch of sandalwood cologne. “How often?” she heard him ask. “More than once?” “I…i-it’s not important now.” “How often, Evie?” Realizing that he was going to persist until she answered, Evie muttered, “Not t-terribly often, but…sometimes when I displeased him, or Aunt Fl-Florence, he would lose his temper. The l-last time I tr-tried to run away, he blackened my eye and spl-split my lip.” “Did he?” Sebastian was silent for a long moment, and then he spoke with chilling softness. “I’m going to tear him limb from limb.” “I don’t want that,” Evie said earnestly. “I-I just want to be safe from him. From all of them.” Sebastian drew his head back to look down into her flushed face. “You are safe,” he said in a low voice. He lifted one of his hands to her face, caressing the plane of her cheekbone, letting his fingertip follow the trail of pale golden freckles across the bridge of her nose. As her lashes fluttered downward, he stroked the slender arcs of her brows, and cradled the side of her face in his palm. “Evie,” he murmured. “I swear on my life, you will never feel pain from my hands. I may prove a devil of a husband in every other regard…but I wouldn’t hurt you that way. You must believe that.

I don't have the damned time for a tumble. And if I did---" He stopped abruptly. All semblance of the elegant viscount Evie had once watched from afar in Lord Westcliff's drawing room had vanished. He was rumpled and bruised and furious. And he wasn't breathing at all well. "If I did--" He broke off again, a flush crossing the crests of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Evie saw the exact moment when his self-restraint snapped. Alarm jolted through her, and she lurched toward the closed door. Before she had even made a step, she found herself seized and pinned against the wall by his body and hands. The smell of sweat-dampened linen and healthy, aroused male filled her nostrils. Once he had caught her, Sebastian pressed his parted lips against the thin skin of her temple. His breath snagged. Another moment of stillness. Evie felt the electrifying touch of his tongue at the very tip of her eyebrow. He breathed against the tiny wet spot, a waft of hellfire that sent chills through her entire body. Slowly he brought his mouth to her ear, and traced the intricate inner edges. His whisper seemed to come from the darkest recesses of her own mind. "If I did, Evie... then by now I would have shredded your clothes with my hands and teeth until you were naked. By now I would have pushed you down to the carpet, and put my hands beneath your breasts and lifted them up to my mouth. I would be kissing them... licking them... until the tips were like hard little berries, and then I would bite them so gently..." Evie felt herself drift into a slow half swoon as he continued in a ragged murmur. "... I would kiss my way down to your thighs... inch by inch... and when I reached those sweet red curls, I would lick through them, deeper and deeper, until I found the little pearl of your clitoris... and I would rest my tongue on it until I felt it throb. I would circle it, and stroke it... I'd lick until you started to beg. And then I would suck you. But not hard. I wouldn't be that kind. I would do it so lightly, so tenderly, that you would start screaming with the need to come... I would put my tongue inside you... taste you... eat you. I wouldn't stop until your entire body was wet and shaking. And when I had tortured you enough, I would open your legs and come inside you, and take you... take you..." Sebastian stopped, anchoring her against the wall while they both remained frozen, aroused, panting. At length, he spoke in a nearly inaudible voice. "You're wet, aren't you?

Evie felt queer and light-headed as she stood facing St. Vincent. The moment he slid the ring onto her finger, her heart began beating much too fast, setting off reckless currents of something that was neither eagerness or fear, but a new emotion that heightened her senses unbearably. There was no word for it, this feeling. Tension gripped her while the pounding of her pulse refused to abate. Their hands flattened together, his fingers much longer than hers, his palm smooth and hot. His head inclined slightly, his face covering hers. Although he was expressionless, a hint of color had glazed the high planes of his cheekbones and crossed the bridge of his nose. And his breath was faster than usual. Surprised by the realization that she had already come to know something as intimate as the normal rhythm of his breathing, Evie averted her gaze. She saw the blacksmith taking a length of white ribbon from one of his daughters, and she flinched a little as he looped it firmly around their joined wrists. A wordless murmur tickled her ear, and she felt St. Vincent's free hand come up to the side of her neck, stroking her as if she were a nervous animal. She relaxed at his touch, while his fingertips moved over her skin with sensitive lightness.

There is a kind of unspoken collusion going on in mainstream science education: you get your competent but bored, insecure and hence stodgy teacher talking to an audience divided between engineering students, who are going to be responsible for making bridges that won’t fall down or airplanes that won’t suddenly plunge vertically into the ground at six hundred miles an hour, and who by definition get sweaty palms and vindictive attitudes when their teacher suddenly veers off track and begins raving about wild and completely nonintuitive phenomena; and physics students, who derive much of their self-esteem from knowing that they are smarter and morally purer than the engineering students, and who by definition don’t want to hear about anything that makes no fucking sense. This collusion results in the professor saying: (something along the lines of) dust is heavier than air, therefore it falls until it hits the ground. That’s all there is to know about dust. The engineers love it because they like their issues dead and crucified like butterflies under glass. The physicists love it because they want to think they understand everything. No one asks difficult questions. And outside the windows, the dust devils continue to gambol across the campus.

He concluded the speech with an irritated motion of his hands. Unfortunately, Evie had been conditioned by too many encounters with Uncle Peregrine to discern between angry gestures and the beginnings of a physical attack. She flinched instinctively, her own arms flying up to shield her head. When the expected pain of a blow did not come, she let out a breath and tentatively lowered her arms to find Sebastian staring at her with blank astonishment. Then his face went dark. "Evie," he said, his voice containing a bladelike ferocity that frightened her. "Did you think I was about to... Christ. Someone hit you. Someone hit you in the past---who the hell was it?" He reached for her suddenly---too suddenly---and she stumbled backward, coming up hard against the wall. Sebastian went very still. "Goddamn," he whispered. Appearing to struggle with some powerful emotion, he stared at her intently. After a long moment, he spoke softly. "I would never strike a woman. I would never harm you. You know that, don't you?" Transfixed by the light, glittering eyes that held hers with such intensity, Evie couldn't move or make a sound. She started as he approached her slowly. "It's all right," he murmured. "Let me come to you. It's all right. Easy." One of his arms slid around her, while he used his free hand to smooth her hair, and then she was breathing, sighing, as relief flowed through her. Sebastian brought her closer against him, his mouth brushing her temple. "Who was it?" he asked. "M-my uncle," she managed to say. The motion of his hand on her back paused as he heard her stammer. "Maybrick?" he asked patiently. "No, th-the other one." "Stubbins." "Yes." Evie closed her eyes in pleasure as his other arm slid around her. Clasped against Sebastian's hard chest, with her cheek tucked against his shoulder, she inhaled the scent of clean male skin, and the subtle touch of sandalwood cologne. "How often?" she heard him ask. "More than once?" "I... i-it's not important now." "How often, Evie?" Realizing that he was going to persist until she answered, Evie muttered, "Not t-terribly often, but... sometimes when I displeased him, or Aunt Fl-Florence, he would lose his temper. The l-last time I tr-tried to run away, he blackened my eye and spl-split my lip." "Did he?" Sebastian was silent for a long moment, and then he spoke with chilling softness. "I'm going to tear him limb from limb." "I don't want that," Evie said earnestly. "I-I just want to be safe from him. From all of them." Sebastian drew his head back to look down into her flushed face. "You are safe," he said in a low voice. He lifted one of his hands to her face, caressing the plane of her cheekbone, letting his fingertip follow the trail of pale golden freckles across the bridge of her nose. As her lashes fluttered downward, he stroked the slender arcs of her brows, and cradled the side of her face with his palm. "Evie," he murmured. "I swear on my life, you will never feel pain from my hands. I may prove a devil of a husband in every other regard... but I wouldn't hurt you that way. You must believe that." The delicate nerves of her skin drank in sensations thirstily... his touch, the erotic waft of his breath against her lips. Evie was afraid to open her eyes, or to do anything that might interrupt the moment. "Yes," she managed to whisper. "Yes... I---" There was the sweet shock of a probing kiss against her lips... another... She opened to him with a slight gasp. His mouth was hot silk and tender fire, invading her with gently questing pressure. His fingertips traced over her face, tenderly adjusting the angle between them.

Prophetic Insights What was Jesus’ weapon of choice for fighting the devil? (See Matthew 4:1–11; Luke 4:1–13.) What are the three ways to keep the fire of prayer burning in your life? What are the three dimensions of prayer identified in this chapter? Have you accessed all three in your prayers?

When we do the will of God, we bring Kingdom reality crashing into the works of the devil. We initiate conflict between earthly reality and heavenly reality, becoming the bridge that asserts, through prayer and radical obedience, the rulership of God.

I can’t take communism nor can you, but to cross this bridge I would hold hands with the Devil.

My children, it is permitted you in time of grave danger to walk with the devil until you have crossed the bridge.

I resisted these movements whenever they came to my notice. In this I was supported by Marshal Stalin, who followed the Russian maxim, “You may always walk with the Devil till you get to the end of the bridge.

A great deal of our time will have to be taken up with the destruction of evil. We may not even seem to see much progress in ourselves or round about us, during our lifetime. We shall have to build with the trowel in one hand and the sword in the other. It may seem to us to be a hopeless task of sweeping the ocean dry. Yet we know that this is exactly what our ethical ideal would be if we were not Christians. We know that for non-Christians their ethical ideal can never be realized either for themselves or for society. They do not even know the true ethical ideal. And as to our own efforts we know that though much of our time may have to be taken up with pumping out the water of sin, we are nevertheless laying the foundation of our bridge on solid rock, and we are making progress toward our goal. Our victory is certain. The devil and all his servants will be put out of the habitable universe of God. There will be a new heaven and a new earth on which righteousness will dwell.

When you investigate a crime in real time, on air, you have this problem of reverb. The reporting you do today will influence the interviews and responses you get tomorrow, because your subject will have heard your episode, and will know your doubts, and suspicions, and theories, and thoughts. They will know what others have told you. And it will influence what they in turn tell you. That’s fine for fiction, but it’s a serious problem from a journalistic standpoint, the telling of a story influencing the story as it’s unfolding. It’s bait and switch. It’s unfair to the listener. You have your footprints and fingerprints all over the story in a very postmodern way. The risk with that—the reason news organizations don’t do it—is that you’ll find inconsistencies. You’ll find people lied to you. You’ll find you overlooked a piece of information, and you may have to reassess or revamp your story. I’m not saying it’s unethical per se, just that there are these potential pitfalls.—Mark Pattinson, journalism professor, on the ethics of true crime podcasting

It feels like I’ll do anything for you. Jump off a bridge for you, turn myself inside out for you. It feels like madness, and I never want it to end.

When the Devil calls my name again, it’ll be listed right after yours.

Forgiveness is about freeing yourself from anger that can be crippling.

What does it feel like?” “It feels like I’ll do anything for you. Jump off a bridge for you, turn myself inside out for you. It feels like madness, and I never want it to end.” Cole considers this, his dark eyes roaming over my face. “Then I must be in love,” he says. “Because that’s what I feel, too.

Russian maxim, “You may always walk with the Devil till you get to the end of the bridge.

Correct,” I say. “Amy Chan

Another day and another passed of rough seas and lowering skies; of rolling and pitching, cold winds, and cold damp eating into bones softened by tropic warmth; of a treadmill of watches in a wheelhouse dank and gloomy by day and danker and gloomier by night; of sullen silent sailors and pale dog-tired officers, of meals in the wardroom eaten in silence, with the captain at the head of the table ceaselessly rolling the balls in his fingers and saying nothing except an infrequent grumpy sentence about the progress of the work requests. Willie lost track of time. He stumbled from the bridge to his coding, from coding to correcting publications, from corrections back up to the bridge, from the bridge to the table for an unappetizing bolted meal, from the table to the clipping shack for sleep which never went uninterrupted for more than a couple of hours. The world became narrowed to a wobbling iron shell on a waste of foamy gray, and the business of the world was staring out at empty water or making red-ink insertions in the devil’s own endless library of mildewed unintelligible volumes.

For that, there’s no devil in hell or god in heaven who can save you. Burn, motherfucker.

The German swung an entrenching tool at Ham, the big soldier ducking from the blow, before thrusting up with his bayonet, the blade digging into the German’s thigh and sending him crashing into the ditch, his arms reaching up, before Ham crashed his boot down on his head.

We think we can keep them safe if we order them what to do, if we control them. We think that if we keep them busy with sports, they can’t get into trouble. But we’re wrong.

When Clayton Jay Pelley pleaded guilty, he denied everyone their proper day in court. He denied you all the why.

Life's Just a Day [Verse] Oh-oh, life's just a day, it's a wild, wild ride, Shit happens, we love, we lose, we still find our stride. From backroads to barrooms, in the shadow of the pines, We're tough as the mountains, strong as the Carolina vines. [Verse 2] When the sun dips low and the whiskey flows free, It's a dance with the devil but the stars never leave. We stumble and fall, but our boots hit the ground, With an outlaw heart, we’ll turn it all around. [Chorus] Oh, life's just a day, and it's a wild, wild ballet, Shit happens, we learn, we laugh, but we make our own way. Through the shadows and the scars, from the cradle to the grave, In the hard times and the good, yeah, we're brave. [Bridge] When the night is full of whispers and the moon's letting on, We find solace in the darkness, and in the crickets' song. For in every heartache, there's a story to tell, With each broken down fence, we rise up from the hell. [Verse 3] In rusted old trucks and in honky-tonk tunes, We gather our strength under a Tennessee moon. With a six-string in hand and a fire in our eyes, We’ll face down our demons with the courage of the skies. [Chorus] Oh, life's just a day, and it's a wild, wild ballet, Shit happens, we learn, we laugh, but we make our own way. Through the shadows and the scars, from the cradle to the grave, In the hard times and the good, yeah, we're brave.

Dance with the Devil [Verse] Dancin' with the devil in the moonlight starlit mess Demons in my closet never gave me any rest High and low and then lower still hit the ground so hard Had to claw my way out back to life from the dark [Verse 2] Disappointed mother tears in dad's eyes deep Friends turned to shadows had no one to keep Hidin' from the truth scared of what I'd see Had to lose it all just to find me [Chorus] Rise from the ashes 'gainst the dark night's howl Every scar a story every pain a growl Digging my nails through the dirt and stone Reckoning the ghost of the life I know [Bridge] Lost myself lost my way in the foggy deep Found nothin' but regret every night of sleep Pledge to the horizon promises in blue Chasing better days ripping through [Verse 3] Country road callin' heartbeats lead the way Breath of fresh freedom in the light of day Undone sins behind stepped into the new Grit in the voice but a fire in the view [Chorus] Rise from the ashes 'gainst the dark night's howl Every scar a story every pain a growl Digging my nails through the dirt and stone Reckoning the ghost of the life I know

Dance with the Devil [Verse] Danced with the devil Shared my load of demons Up and down this dusty trail Hit rock bottom Climb my way out [Verse 2] Disappointed my old folks Friendships needed mendin' Hide from truth So I could find Find my honest self [Chorus] Cursed the sky cried out loud But in the end Just tried to stand proud Through the darkness Searched for my light In the chaos I found my fight [Verse 3] Whiskey on my breath Open wounds that bled Hollow promises made Struggled on that ledge Runnin' from my dread [Bridge] Scars from battles lost and won Emotions tangled like a knot Seems sometimes gotta be down To see the sun [Chorus] Cursed the sky cried out loud But in the end Just tried to stand proud Through the darkness Searched for my light In the chaos I found my fight

If anything, the ripples from this old crime must show us how to listen, to care, and to give everyone a chance and a helping hand. Because that’s community, after all, isn’t it?

I wouldn't want to dance with the devil either. Yet he's right beside me.

I warned you," I say. "I gave you a chance to walk away and you didn't take it. Instead, you thought you could touch what's mine. Fuck what's mine. For that, there's no devil in hell or god in heaven who can save you. Burn, motherfucker.

I warned you,” I say. “I gave you a chance to walk away and you didn’t take it. Instead, you thought you could touch what’s mine. Fuck what’s mine. For that, there’s no devil in hell or god in heaven who can save you. Burn, motherfucker.

Maybe we pray on our knees because god only listens when we're this close to the devil. There is so much I want to tell you. How my greatest accolade was to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge & not think of flight.

We were not drowning people needing a life ring—we were dead people in need of life. Further, we were slaves to the world, to the devil, and to our own sinful natures. And as we’ve already seen, we were by nature objects of God’s holy wrath. Dead, slaves, objects of wrath—what a desperate condition!

When we do the will of God, we bring Kingdom reality crashing into the works of the devil. We initiate conflict between earthly reality and heavenly reality, becoming the bridge and connection point that makes it possible through prayer and radical obedience to assert the rulership of God.

You may always walk with the Devil till you get to the end of the bridge.

Julian wore his favorite good-luck red-striped soccer jersey. He was planning to make money to build cement walls for his mother's house. He was recently married, and he and his wife were expecting a child that October. His father said Julian had promised to "always behave with respect," and that he would do nothing to cost his father his feelings of pride. He had a note from his bridge in his pocket.

...Battaglia gagged her. Told her to take the high road. Fuck the high road, I said. It's usually a dead end. --Mike Chapman to Lee, Crime Scene Photographer.

God of the battlefield, eh? Gods and devils can look much alike to us little people. You went to a ford, and a bridge, and a hill, and what did you do there except kill? What have you made? Who have you helped?” He stood there for a moment, all his bravado slithering out. She is right. And no one knows it better than me. “Nothing and no one,” he whispered. “So you love war. I used to think you were a decent man. But I see now I was mistaken.” She stabbed at his chest with her forefinger. “You’re a hero.

But for the Catholic, the imagination and the ability to create is a gift of the Holy Spirit. Indeed, the imagination bridges both the appetites and the higher reason as well as the material and the spiritual. Without the imagination, man cannot sanctify the world. Further, without the imagination, man cannot envision unity. Instead, trapped in his own subjective understandings of the world, the man drowns in his own appetites and reasons, never seeing the beauty of all other things in the Created Order. The Protestant Reformation, therefore, did great damage not only to the unified Body of Christ—ravenously ripping it apart—but it also fundamentally changed the meaning of man, at least as man understands himself. Equally important, the Reformation, by denying the imagination as a holy function and mistrusting it as if it were from the devil, ultimately distorted and perverted man’s relationship to the Holy Spirit. It is no wonder then, Dawson believed, that this breakdown in society and this disordering of the human soul and its relationship to God led to secularism, liberalism, and, ultimately, to totalitarianism. Once the imagination is destroyed, man becomes the measure of all things, and who-ever wields the most power becomes “right.” With the imagination mocked, distorted, and ignored, man sees another only as a collection of parts, to beused and manipulated. Hence, the loss of imagination leads to the gulags, the holocaust camps, and the killing fields.

You are permitted in time of great danger to walk with the devil until you have crossed the bridge.

In many ways, our sinful flesh acts as a mole. It is constantly responding to the allurements of the world and the enticements of the devil, and is constantly seeking to collaborate with them. And so we are very vulnerable spiritually. The

The water under the bridge looked strangely enticing. For a mortuary, it was oddly breathtaking. I felt in tune with all the beings lying underneath, creatures no different than me, some of them human, lost on their way to heaven, who decided to end it all one day for reasons no one else could comprehend. It pained my heart to think I was in that place.

shell tumbled overhead and Jack saw a plume of water spit up from the river, his eyes squinting as he saw something moving amongst the smoke. 'Sir.' 'What is it?' Connor asked, as he looked up from the paper. 'It's,' Jack paused, his hands rubbing his eyes as a figure took shape on the bridge. 'It's a man riding a bicycle, sir.' 'A man doing what?' Connor asked, before turning, his face flashing with surprise as he saw the figure steering around a burnt out truck, his front wheel squeaking as he pedalled towards the pillbox. Jack followed Connor as he stepped outside, the captain ducking down as a shell spat overhead, the cyclist swerving as the projectile crashed into the river, sending a jet of water spurting into the air. 'What the hell are you doing?' Connor shouted, as the man drew near, his legs back-pedalling as he came to a stop. 'Are you trying to get killed?' Connor asked, his hand seizing him by the arm and dragging him behind a concrete barrier as another shell screamed overhead. 'I am sorry,' the man said, before wiping a handkerchief over his brow. 'Where the hell have you come from?

It will get calmer once we’re near the beach,’ an older man said, his face unconcerned as he patiently peeled an orange with his thumb. ‘I'm glad you think that we’re going to make it to the beach, Henry,’ a soldier said, from the opposite side of the boat, his face miserable

What am I supposed to do with this?’ Donald asked. ‘Well it ain’t a bloody hat? Is it?’ Fred said. ‘If yow have got energy to moan, yow have got energy to work.’ ‘Serves you right, Shakespeare,’ Reg laughed, as Donald stood and started to fill the bucket. ‘Yow can help him,’ Fred said, before ducking into the seating well. ‘Bloody tyrant,’ Reg muttered,

Jesus help me,’ Reg shouted, as Jack crashed into him. ‘It's me you fool,’ Jack hissed.

He saw Fred wave, before pulling a Mills bomb from his ammunition pouch and holding it up. Jack nodded, before reaching for a grenade, the iron casing slick beneath his wet fingers as he held it against his chest. He turned to face Fred, the big corporal nodding, before gesturing towards the trench. Jack snatched the pin free, before holding down the lever, his heart in his mouth as he felt the wet metal slipping between his fingers.

Lucky bastards,’ Reg muttered, as he stared at the sleeping men. ‘They won’t be when the Red Caps get hold of ‘em,’ Fred replied, his voice disparaging. ‘A few minutes of sleep ain’t worth a fizzer.’ ‘I’d give a month’s pay for a kip,’ Reg said, before stifling a yawn with his hand. ‘If yow drop out I’ll drag yow along this road by your bollocks,’ Fred growled. ‘There’s no charity in you, is there?’ ‘No.

My favourite,‘ Ham said, before pushing the fruit into his mouth whole.  ‘It's like watching a ruddy hamster trying to eat a snooker ball,‘ Reg said, his eyes staring as Ham chewed the fleshy fruit between his teeth.

Sir,' he said, as he rose to his feet. 'What is it, corporal?' Evans asked, his voice faltering slightly as he looked up at the tall NCO. 'I'd like to volunteer for the recce,' Fred said, his voice wooden as he shot an angry look at Shorthouse. 'Volunteer?' Evans asked, his voice surprised. 'Yes, sir, and Jack here is volunteering to go as well.' 'I am?' 'Yes yow bloody well are,' Fred said, cutting Jack short. 'Oh, well, that's jolly good of you,' Evans said. 'You'd best take a Bren with you, in case you run into trouble,' Shorthouse said. 'Sid and Stan will volunteer as well,

How's Fred?' Henry asked, as the sergeant joined the men. 'Snoring his head off,' Shorthouse replied. 'They're going to get him to the Regimental Aid Post as soon as we find out where the hell it is.' 'He won't like that,' Sid said. 'I don't give a tinker's cuss what he likes, the bugger's no use to me, it'll be days before his concussion goes away,' Shorthouse replied.

I love how mortals paint such a darling picture of me–” He pinched the bridge of his nose as though fighting off a headache. “No, Charlotte. Because I marked you and therefore that makes you mine until I see fit.

I don’t know why He tells me these things. Maybe it’s a way of obliquely bringing out and addressing his own Shadow. But I do think our Shadows are bad—his and mine. Big and dark and very dangerous. I don’t think our Shadows should ever be allowed out. —From the diary of Leena Rai