Don Herald Quotes

Don't entrust your future on others' hands. Rather make decisions by yourself with the help of God's guidance. Hold your beliefs so tight and never let go of them!

I don't agree that when you love, you are blind or fool. You just get wiser and see clearer what is best and of worth.

A quaint conceit, don't you think?

[...] what the hell do I do about a broken lifebond?" He shook his head, obviously at a loss. "I can't tell you; I don't know. I don't Heal minds, I Heal bodies. And I don't know of anyone who Heals hearts.

A fine power is always heralded by great pain.

Words for everyday showers of prettiness, and the kind of misty loveliness that disappears whenever you try to grasp it. Beauty that’s heralded by impressive thunder, but turns out to be all flash. And beyond all these, there’d be this word . . . a word that even the most grizzled, wizened elders might have uttered twice in their lifetimes, and in hushed, fearful tones at that. A word for a sudden, cataclysmic torrent of beauty with the power to change landscapes. Make plains out of valleys and alter the course of rivers and leave people clinging to trees, alive and resentful, shaking their fists at the heavens.” A hint of sensual frustration roughened his voice. “And I will curse the gods along with them, Min. Some wild monsoon raged through me as I looked at you just now. It’s left me rearranged inside, and I don’t have a map.

Father, too, is a contradiction. The least heralded physician in Noshahr, a father too busy healing others to notice his daughters' broken hearts. Not exactly true. I'm sure he notices. He just doesn't know what to do, and I don't know how to ask. So, here we are: him locking me in and me plotting my escape.

There is a Western phenomenon called the male midlife crisis. Very often it is heralded by divorce. What history might have done to you, you bring about on purpose: separation from woman and child. Don’t tell me that such men aren’t tasting the ancient flavors of death and defeat. In America, with divorce achieved, the midlifer can expect to be more recreational, more discretionary. He can almost design the sort of crisis he is going to have: motorbike, teenage girlfriend, vegetarianism, jogging, sports car, mature boyfriend, cocaine, crash diet, powerboat, new baby, religion, hair transplant. Over here, now, there’s no angling around for your male midlife crisis. It is brought to you and it is always the same thing. It is death.

Don’t you see, Stef? It’s not that I’m serving Valdemar, it’s that I’m helping to preserve the kind of people who leave the world better than they found it, and trying to stop the ones who take instead of giving.

Heralds don't sing about men who lived in orthodoxy or played it safe, they sing about men who lived an uncertain future and took enough risks to make your head spin.

The majority of women in Welmont with children Charlie's age never miss a soccer game and don't earn special good mother status for being there. This is simply what good mothers do. These same mothers herald it an exceptional event if any of the dads leave the office early to catch a game. The fathers cheering on the sidelines are upheld as great dads. Fathers who miss the games are working. Mothers who miss the games, like me, are bad mothers.

Fat people—especially very fat people, like me—are frequently met with screwed-up faces insisting on health and concern. Often, we defend ourselves by insisting that concerns about our health are wrongheaded, rooted in faulty and broad assumptions. We rattle off our test results and hospital records, citing proudly that we’ve never had a heart attack, hypertension, or diabetes. We proudly recite our gym schedules and the contents of our refrigerators. Many fat people live free from the complications popularly associated with their bodies. Many fat people don’t have diabetes, just as many fat people do have loving partners despite common depictions of us. Although we are not thin, we proudly report that we are happy and we are healthy. We insist on our goodness by relying on our health. But what we mean is that we are tired of automatically being seen as sick. We are exhausted from the work of carrying bodies that can only be seen as doomed. We are tired of being heralded as dead men walking, undead specters from someone else’s morality tale.

The Dallas Times Herald ran a cartoon mocking the [Reagan] administration's position. "We don't oppose the extension of the Voting Rights Act ... but we think the test of discrimination should be intent not effect," a fictional Smith said at a press conference. "Won't that cripple enforcement of the Act?" a reporter asked. "That is not our intent," Smith responded.

Second, it is strange indeed to hear Millennialists complain of “literalism.” Book after book written by Millennialists heralds the message that prophecy can only be understood literally. We are told it is an abuse of scripture to interpret language any other way, especially prophetic language. However, when that principle is applied to the time language of scripture, all of a sudden, the cry for literalism vanishes. Indeed, one is cautioned against “wooden literalism!

And then there was the sad sign that a young woman working at a Tim Hortons in Lethbridge, Alberta, taped to the drive-through window in 2007. It read, “No Drunk Natives.” Accusations of racism erupted, Tim Hortons assured everyone that their coffee shops were not centres for bigotry, but what was most interesting was the public response. For as many people who called in to radio shows or wrote letters to the Lethbridge Herald to voice their outrage over the sign, there were almost as many who expressed their support for the sentiment. The young woman who posted the sign said it had just been a joke. Now, I’ll be the first to say that drunks are a problem. But I lived in Lethbridge for ten years, and I can tell you with as much neutrality as I can muster that there were many more White drunks stumbling out of the bars on Friday and Saturday nights than there were Native drunks. It’s just that in North America, White drunks tend to be invisible, whereas people of colour who drink to excess are not. Actually, White drunks are not just invisible, they can also be amusing. Remember how much fun it was to watch Dean Martin, Red Skelton, W. C. Fields, John Wayne, John Barrymore, Ernie Kovacs, James Stewart, and Marilyn Monroe play drunks on the screen and sometimes in real life? Or Jodie Marsh, Paris Hilton, Cheryl Tweedy, Britney Spears, and the late Anna Nicole Smith, just to mention a few from my daughter’s generation. And let’s not forget some of our politicians and persons of power who control the fates of nations: Winston Churchill, John A. Macdonald, Boris Yeltsin, George Bush, Daniel Patrick Moynihan. Hard drinkers, every one. The somewhat uncomfortable point I’m making is that we don’t seem to mind our White drunks. They’re no big deal so long as they’re not driving. But if they are driving drunk, as have Canada’s coffee king Tim Horton, the ex-premier of Alberta Ralph Klein, actors Kiefer Sutherland and Mel Gibson, Super Bowl star Lawyer Milloy, or the Toronto Maple Leafs’ Mark Bell, we just hope that they don’t hurt themselves. Or others. More to the point, they get to make their mistakes as individuals and not as representatives of an entire race.

In this ultimate identity crisis, we would “no longer have the characteristics that give us human dignity” because, for one thing, “people dehumanized à la Brave New World¼don’t know that they are dehumanized, and, what is worse, would not care if they knew.

Really, Tichy. Don’t be so demonic. Ours is simply a world in which more than twenty billion people live. Did you read today’s Herald? The government of Pakistan claims that in this year’s famine only 970,000 perished, while the opposition gives a figure of six million. In such a world where are you going to find Chablis, pheasants, tenderloin with sauce béarnaise? The last pheasant died a quarter of a century ago. That bird is a corpse, only excellently preserved, for we have become masters of its mummification—or rather: we have learned how to hide its death.

What do you do?” Leon leaned forward. “You left the Army and disappeared. How come?” “Leon,” Mother warned. “Is it because of the war?” Lina asked. “People on Herald say you have PTSD and you became a hermit like a monk because of it.” “Either a hermit or a monk, not both,” I corrected out of habit. “Herald also said he was disfigured.” Arabella made big eyes. “Yes, I’m a hermit. Mostly I brood,” Mad Rogan said. “Also I’m very good at wallowing in self-pity. I spend my days steeped in melancholy, looking out the window. Occasionally a single tear quietly rolls down my cheek.” Arabella and Lina snickered in unison. “Do you also brush a white orchid against your lips?” Arabella put in. “While sad music plays in the background?” Lina grinned. “Perhaps,” Mad Rogan said. “Do you have a girlfriend?” Grandma Frida asked. I put my hand over my face. “No,” Mad Rogan said. “A boyfriend?” Grandma Frida asked. “No.” “What about . . .” “No,” Mom and I said in unison. “But you don’t even know what I wanted to ask!” “No,” we said again together. “Party poopers.

There is a visitor, Countess.” “A visitor?” Mother looks toward the rain-drenched windows. “Who would be out in this mess? Has their car given out?” “No, My Lady. The young woman says her name is Nancy Herald. She apologized for not making an appointment and provided her card. It seems to be a business proposition.” My mother makes a sweeping motion with the back of her hand. “I have no interest or time for business propositions. Send her on her way, please.” Stanhope places a business card on the table, bows, and leaves the room. Penny picks it up as she sips her drink, looks it over—and then spits her brandy all over the carpet. “Penelope!” mother yells. My sister stands up, waving the card over her head like Veruca Salt after she got her hands on the golden ticket to the chocolate factory. “Stanhope!” she screams. “Don’t let her leave! She a television producer!” Penny turns to me and in a quieter but urgent voice says, “She’s a television producer.” As if I didn’t hear her the first time. Then she sprints from the room. Or . . . tries to. Halfway to the door, her heel catches on the carpet and she falls flat on her face with an “Ooof.” “Are you all right, Pen?” She pulls herself up, waving her hands. “I’m fine! Or I will be, as long as she doesn’t leave!” The second try’s the charm, and Penelope scurries out of the room as fast as her four-inch heels will take her. My mother shakes her head at my sister’s retreating form. “Too much sugar, that one.” Then she drains her glass.

I think I was born to write. My mother would put a typewriter on the dining room table and say "there you go". My first story was published in the Christian Herald and they would pay me five guineas. I wrote my first novel when I was just 14. I was into mysteries and thrillers at the time but I eventually I drifted into romance because my mother would always ask me to write 'something pretty'. I've never got bored of it because its something I absolutely love. My books are full of hope and romance rather than sex. They are a form of escapism - you can escape the parts of the world that you don't like.

When the people find that they can vote themselves money, that will herald the end of the republic. – Ben Franklin Any fool can criticize, condemn and complain and most fools do. – Ben Franklin Malcolm X once said, Time is on the side of the oppressed today. It’s against the oppressor. Truth is on the side of the oppressed today. It’s against the oppressor. You don’t need anything else. President Abe Lincoln uttered a profound and prophetic maxim approximately 150 years ago, If you once forfeit the confidence of your fellow citizens, you can never regain their respect and esteem. It is true that you may fool all of the people some of the time; you can fool some of the people all of the time; but you cannot fool all the people all of the time.

Honor He Wrote Sonnet 22 You don't know love, till you've known heartbreak, You won't know sight, till you've known blindness. You don't know courage, till you've felt helpless, You won't know light, till you've been in darkness. Darkest clouds herald the brightest sunshine, Direst circumstances make the bravest of character. Heavier the rainfall, more breathtaking the rainbow, Steeper the hill to climb, sweeter the summit vista. Once your back is against the wall, only way is through, You won't know integrity, till you are left in pieces. Lose all identity, only then you'll know to be human, You won't know wholeness, till you've felt nothingness. More ominous the night, more spectacular the daybreak. Till we're wiped out for a purpose, there’s no upliftment.

Trees, trees, millions of trees, massive, immense, running up high; and at their foot, hugging the bank against the stream, crept the little begrimed steamboat, like a sluggish beetle crawling on the floor of a lofty portico. It made you feel very small, very lost, and yet it was not altogether depressing, that feeling. After all, if you were small, the grimy beetle crawled on--which was just what you wanted it to do. Where the pilgrims imagined it crawled to I don't know. To some place where they expected to get something, I bet! For me it crawled toward Kurtz--exclusively; but when the steam-pipes started leaking we crawled very slow. The reaches opened before us and closed behind, as if the forest had stepped leisurely across the water to bar the way for our return. We penetrated deeper and deeper into the heart of darkness. It was very quiet there. At night sometimes the roll of drums behind the curtain of trees would run up the river and remain sustained faintly, as if hovering in the air high over our heads, till the first break of day. Whether it meant war, peace, or prayer we could not tell. The dawns were heralded by the descent of a chill stillness; the woodcutters slept, their fires burned low; the snapping of a twig would make you start. We were wanderers on a prehistoric earth, on an earth that wore the aspect of an unknown planet. We could have fancied ourselves the first of men taking possession of an accursed inheritance, to be subdued at the cost of profound anguish and of excessive toil. But suddenly, as we struggled round a bend, there would be a glimpse of rush walls, of peaked grass-roofs, a burst of yells, a whirl of black limbs, a mass of hands clapping, of feet stamping, of bodies swaying, of eyes rolling, under the droop of heavy and motionless foliage. The steamer toiled along slowly on the edge of a black and incomprehensible frenzy. The prehistoric man was cursing us, praying to us, welcoming us--who could tell? We were cut off from the comprehension of our surroundings; we glided past like phantoms, wondering and secretly appalled, as sane men would be before an enthusiastic outbreak in a madhouse. We could not understand, because we were too far and could not remember, because we were traveling in the night of first ages, of those ages that are gone, leaving hardly a sign--and no memories.

Only, this was the thing: you'd provided me with the possibility of getting away from myself and making myself at home in another world. You were like a messenger from that world. With you, I could give my real self a rest. You were part and parcel of that dissolving of reality - myself included - that I'd been working on for seven or eight years through writing. For me, you were the herald out in front who showed me how to put the menacing world on hold. In that world I was a refugee whose existence was not legitimate, whose future never went beyond the three months of a temporary visa. I had no desire to come back to earth. I'd found a refuge in a magical experience and I wasn't about to let it get dragged down into reality. As far back as I can remember, I'd always sought not to exist. You've had to work for years on end to get me to accept the fact that I do exist. And I really don't think your work is over yet.

Even as it expanded into a transnational multi-billion-dollar corporation, Google managed to retain its geekily innocent “Don’t Be Evil” image. It convinced its users that everything it did was driven by a desire to help humanity. That’s the story you’ll find in just about every popular book on Google: a gee-whiz tale about two brilliant nerds from Stanford who turned a college project into an epoch-defining New Economy dynamo, a company that embodied every utopian promise of the networked society: empowerment, knowledge, democracy. For a while, it felt true. Maybe this really was the beginning of a new, highly networked world order, where the old structures—militaries, corporations, governments—were helpless before the leveling power of the Internet. As Wired’s Louis Rossetto wrote in 1995, “Everything we know will be different. Not just a change from L.B.J. to Nixon, but whether there will be a President at all.”8 Back then, anybody suggesting Google might be the herald of a new kind of dystopia, rather than a techno-utopia, would have been laughed out of the room. It was all but unthinkable.

Sovereign King of Detachment and Renunciation, Emperor of Death and Shipwreck, living dream that gradually wanders among the worlds ruins and wastes! Sovereign King of Despair amid splendours, grieving lord of palaces that don't satisfy, master of processions and pageants that never succeed in blotting out life! Sovereign King risen from the tombs, who came in the night by the light of the moon to tell your life to the living, royal page of lilies that have lost their petals, imperial herald of the coldness of ivory! Sovereign King Shepard of the Watches, knight errant of Anxieties traveling on moonlit roads without glory and without even a lady to serve, lord in the forest and on the slopes, a silent silhouette with visor drawn shut, passing through valleys, misunderstood in villages, ridiculed in towns, scorned in the cities! Sovereign King consecrated by Death to be her own, pale and absurd, forgotten and unrecognized, reigning amid worn-out velvets and tarnished marble on his throne at the limits of the Possible, surrounded by the shadows of his unreal court and guarded by the fantasy of his mysterious, solidierless army. (...) Your love for things dreamed was your contempt for things lived. Virgin King who disdained love, Shadow King who disdained light, Dream King who denied life! Amid the muffled racket of cymbals and drums, Darkness acclaims you Emperor!

Wait until the truffles hit the dining room---absolute sex," said Scott. When the truffles arrived the paintings leaned off the walls toward them. They were the grand trumpets of winter, heralding excess against the poverty of the landscape. The black ones came first and the cooks packed them up in plastic quart containers with Arborio rice to keep them dry. They promised to make us risotto with the infused rice once the truffles were gone. The white ones came later, looking like galactic fungus. They immediately went into the safe in Chef's office. "In a safe? Really?" "The trouble we take is in direct proportion to the trouble they take. They are impossible," Simone said under her breath while Chef went over the specials. "They can't be that impossible if they are on restaurant menus all over town." I caught her eye. "I'm kidding." "You can't cultivate them. The farmers used to take female pigs out into the countryside, lead them to the oaks, and pray. They don't use pigs anymore, they use well-behaved dogs. But they still walk and hope." "What happened to the female pigs?" Simone smiled. "The scent smells like testosterone to them. It drives them wild. They destroyed the land and the truffles because they would get so frenzied." I waited at the service bar for drinks and Sasha came up beside me with a small wooden box. He opened it and there sat the blanched, malignant-looking tuber and a small razor designed specifically for it. The scent infiltrated every corner of the room, heady as opium smoke, drowsing us. Nicky picked up the truffle in his bare hand and delivered it to bar 11. He shaved it from high above the guest's plate. Freshly tilled earth, fields of manure, the forest floor after a rain. I smelled berries, upheaval, mold, sheets sweated through a thousand times. Absolute sex.

Roll call. What’s this week’s all scatter word?” “Lowdown,” said Camilla. “And the all clear?” “Deadweight,” said Nona. “Perfect. What are your stations if that thing in the sky even looks like it’s about to start periscoping?” “The underground tunnels by the fish market,” said Camilla. “The big underpass bridge dugout,” said Nona. “Ten points to you both. And what do you do once you’re there?” “Hide until you come,” said Nona, and then added, truthfully: “And rescue any nearby animals so long as they don’t exceed the size of a box, and are wooly rather than hairy.” “Half points. No animals, hairy or wooly, I don’t care. Cam?” Camilla had finished with her hat, and now she was easing the big dark glasses onto her face— the ones she kept specially, despite the fact that they were a little unbalanced on her nose and her ears. They made both Palamedes and Camilla look chilly and clinical, but as Palamedes said, they solved the problem of the ghost limb. Without them he was everlastingly pushing something up his nose that wasn’t there. And Nona thought Camilla privately rather liked them. She settled them on, considered the question, and said: “Fight.” “No points. Camilla if you engage with a Herald, you’re not coming home.” “That’s your theory,” said Camilla. “There’s data behind it. Hect—” “If Camilla gets to fight, I should get to keep adjacent dogs,” said Nona decidedly. “Even if they’re hairy.” Pyrrha turned her eyes up to the ceiling in mute appeal. Her exhalation rasped loudly against the vent in her mask. “I used to run the whole Bureau,” she said, and now she didn’t sound like she was addressing either of them. “Now I’m up against wannabe heroes and hairy dogs. This is the punishment she would’ve wanted for me. God, she must be pissing herself laughing… let’s go kids. Like hell am I walking in this heat.

Almost as though this thought had fluttered through the open window, Vernon Dursley, Harry’s uncle, suddenly spoke. “Glad to see the boy’s stopped trying to butt in. Where is he anyway?” “I don’t know,” said Aunt Petunia unconcernedly. “Not in the house.” Uncle Vernon grunted. “Watching the news . . .” he said scathingly. “I’d like to know what he’s really up to. As if a normal boy cares what’s on the news — Dudley hasn’t got a clue what’s going on, doubt he knows who the Prime Minister is! Anyway, it’s not as if there’d be anything about his lot on our news —” “Vernon, shh!” said Aunt Petunia. “The window’s open!” “Oh — yes — sorry, dear . . .” The Dursleys fell silent. Harry listened to a jingle about Fruit ’N Bran breakfast cereal while he watched Mrs. Figg, a batty, cat-loving old lady from nearby Wisteria Walk, amble slowly past. She was frowning and muttering to herself. Harry was very pleased that he was concealed behind the bush; Mrs. Figg had recently taken to asking him around for tea whenever she met him in the street. She had rounded the corner and vanished from view before Uncle Vernon’s voice floated out of the window again. “Dudders out for tea?” “At the Polkisses’,” said Aunt Petunia fondly. “He’s got so many little friends, he’s so popular . . .” Harry repressed a snort with difficulty. The Dursleys really were astonishingly stupid about their son, Dudley; they had swallowed all his dim-witted lies about having tea with a different member of his gang every night of the summer holidays. Harry knew perfectly well that Dudley had not been to tea anywhere; he and his gang spent every evening vandalizing the play park, smoking on street corners, and throwing stones at passing cars and children. Harry had seen them at it during his evening walks around Little Whinging; he had spent most of the holidays wandering the streets, scavenging newspapers from bins along the way. The opening notes of the music that heralded the seven o’clock news reached Harry’s ears and his stomach turned over. Perhaps tonight — after a month of waiting — would be the night — “Record numbers of stranded holidaymakers fill airports as the Spanish baggage-handlers’ strike reaches its second week —” “Give ’em a lifelong siesta, I would,” snarled Uncle Vernon over the end of the newsreader’s sentence, but no matter: Outside in the flower bed, Harry’s stomach seemed to unclench.

At the end of the lane Elizabeth put down her side of the trunk and sank down wearily beside Lucinda upon its hard top, emotionally exhausted. A wayward chuckle bubbled up inside her, brought on by exhaustion, fright, defeat, and the last remnants of triumph over having gotten just a little of her own back from the man who’d ruined her life. The only possible explanation for Ian Thornton’s behavior today was that he was a complete madman. With a shake of her head Elizabeth made herself stop thinking of him. At the moment she had so many new worries she hardly knew how to begin to cope. She glanced sideways at her stalwart duenna, and an amused smile touched her lips as she recalled Lucinda’s actions at the cottage. On the one hand, Lucinda rejected all emotional displays as totally unseemly-yet at the same time she herself was possessed of the most formidable temper Elizabeth had ever witnessed. It was as if Lucinda did not regard her own outbursts of ire as emotional. Without the slightest hesitation or regret Lucinda could verbally flay a wrongdoer into small, bite-sized pieces and then mentally stamp him into the ground and grind him beneath the heel of her sturdy shoe. On the other hand, were Elizabeth to exhibit the smallest bit of fear right now over their daunting predicament, Lucinda would instantly stiffen up with disapproval and deliver one of her sharp reprimands. Cognizant of that, Elizabeth glanced worriedly at the sky, where black clouds were rolling in, heralding a storm; but when she spoke she sounded deliberately and absurdly bland. “I believe it’s starting to rain, Lucinda,” she remarked while cold drizzle began to slap the leaves of the tree over their heads. “So it would seem,” said Lucinda. She opened her umbrella with a smart snap, holding it over them both. “It’s fortunate you have your umbrella.” “We aren’t likely to drown from a little rain.” “I shouldn’t think so.” Elizabeth drew a steadying breath, looking around at the harsh Scottish cliffs. In the tone of one asking someone’s opinion on a rhetorical question, Elizabeth said, “Do you suppose there are wolves out here?” “I believe,” Lucinda replied, “they probably constitute a larger threat to our health at present than the rain.” The sun was setting, and the early spring air had a sharp bite in it; Elizabeth was almost positive they’d be freezing by nightfall. “It’s a bit chilly.” “Rather.” “We have warmer clothes in the trunks, though.” “I daresay we won’t be too uncomfortable, in that case.” Elizabeth’s wayward sense of humor chose that unlikely moment to assert itself. “No, we shall be snug as can be while the wolves gather around us.” “Quite.” Hysteria, hunger, and exhaustion-combined with Lucinda’s unswerving calm and her earlier unprecedented entry into the cottage with umbrella flailing-were making Elizabeth almost giddy. “Of course, if the wolves realize how hungry we are, there’s every change they’ll give us a wide berth.” “A cheering possibility.” “We’ll build a fire,” Elizabeth said, her lips twitching. “That will keep them at bay, I believe.” When Lucinda remained silent for several moments, occupied with her own thoughts, Elizabeth confided with an odd surge of happiness. “Do you know something, Lucinda? I don’t think I would have missed today for anything.” Lucinda’s thin gray brows shot up, and she cast a dubious sideways glance at Elizabeth. “I realize that must sound extremely peculiar, but can you imagine how absolutely exhilarating it was to have that man at the point of a gun for just a few minutes? Do you find that-odd?” Elizabeth asked when Lucinda stared straight ahead in angry, thoughtful silence. “What I find off,” she said in a tone of frosty disapproval mingled with surprise, “is that you evoke such animosity in that man.” “I think he’s quite demented.” “I would have said embittered.” “About what?” “That is an interesting question.

All interesting literature is born in that moment when you are not sure if you are in one place with one culture,” Ms. Tawada told The Herald, of Glasgow, in 2008. “So I don’t think I’m exceptional: I’m in a special situation, but it’s a very literary, poetic situation.

But a Herald has to have your trust right away, don’t you see? If you come to trust the person more than the office, the way you do with your priest, there would be trouble for every new Herald in a Sector.” The boy looked thoughtful at this. “So you move all the time, to make sure it’s the job that stays important, not the person doing it. I bet if you stayed in one place too long, you’d get too bound up with the people to judge right, too.

An avid collector of Old West memorabilia, Walter Brennan remained ensconced in a vision of the American frontier and the myth of bootstrap individualism. As early as 1962, he was deploring the image of America that Hollywood sent abroad with pictures such as West Side Story. “Why don’t we make more pictures like How the West Was Won, The Alamo, The Best Years of Our Lives, and The Westerner?” he asked journalist Jean Bosquet of the Los Angeles Herald-Examiner. Brennan did not seem to realize that in his portrayal of Judge Roy Bean, a character whose mentality borders on a kind of homegrown fascism, he had conveyed the impression of a lawless West.

Don’t let May 1 catch you by surprise! With your children, make paper cones from scrapbook paper and attach a ribbon so that they can be hung on a doorknob. Fill them with silk or paper flowers and a holy card. Now you have May baskets, ready to herald the month of Our Lady!

Well, he was a bit intimidating." "A bit?"  Juliet laughed.  "We're talking about a man who conceals a rapier in his walking stick, who appears to be as omniscient as God, who faithfully practices his dueling skills every week, and who loves nothing more than to move and manipulate those around him as he might the pieces in a game of chess.  Add to that the fact he is one of the most powerful — and dangerous — men in England, and I fear that intimidating doesn't even begin to describe him!  But he loves and is very protective of his family, I'll give him that.  If you could have seen him when he found out that Gareth had taken up pugilism for a living . . ." Humming to herald her imminent arrival, Nerissa reappeared, all smiles. "Well, well, I see that you two Yankee Doodles have found something to talk about!" "Yes, your infamous brother," Juliet said wryly. "Lucien?  He wasn't unkind to you, was he, Amy?" Amy nearly laughed.  "I don't understand why everyone thinks he's such a monster!" The other two exchanged knowing glances.  "You will," they chorused.

I’m going to surprise you. Surprises are the best thing, don’t you think?’ I look at him, then away again, unsure how to answer. In my experience, surprises are a herald of worse things to come.

LETTERS FROM REGIONAL THEATER OWNERS “Stay away from this. A nightmare. Will drive ’em out of your theater. It may be a classic to you, but it’s plumb nuts to your public. Some swell acting and production wasted. Way too extreme.” J. K. BURGESS, Iris Theatre, Velva, North Dakota, Motion Picture Herald, January 3, 1942 “Don’t try to tell me Orson Welles isn’t a genius. Herein he has produced a mighty fine picture. Herewith he has established for me the lowest gross I have ever experienced. I hurt all over.” DANIEL KORMAN, Palace Theatre, Ontario, Canada, Motion Picture Herald, February 28, 1942

As Paddy Murray wrote in the Evening Herald: “It didn’t even rain. It wouldn’t have dared. They don’t call Bruce Springsteen the Boss for nothing.

We are going to become Gods. Period. If you don’t like it, get off. You don’t have to contribute; you don’t have to participate. But if you’re going to interfere with me becoming God, we’re going

Jesus Christ has no need to shed his blood for a mother’s need to depend on other women for fellowship. The eternal Son of God did not go to the cross and suffer crucifixion and the wrath of God to atone for a mom’s inability to accomplish everything she wants to do in a day. The Lamb of God was not esteemed stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted for the sake of women who simply don’t know everything there is to know about nutrition, or the Bible, or childhood development, or whatever. Before we call upon the great doctrine of justification by faith alone to redeem us out of our so-called calamity, or before we herald the massive truth that we are counted righteous in Christ by faith in him, we ought to consider the nature of our need.

Gentlemen,” said Spurgeon to his students, “don’t go creeping into your subject, as some swimmers go into the water, first to the ankles, and then to the knees, and then to the waist and shoulders: plunge into it at once over head and ears!

They want Christians to believe this is about justice and equality. But it’s not. Take, for example, the Gay Liberation Manifesto of 1971. It said, “Equality is never going to be enough. What is needed is a total social revolution, a complete reordering of civilization. Including society’s most basic institution, the patriarchal society.”22 Along the same lines, there is the key leader in the second wave of feminism in America, Kate Millett. She was a homosexual woman and author who held meetings in one of which the following call and response were heralded: “Why are we here today?” “To make revolution,” the group answered. “What kind of revolution?” “The Cultural Revolution,” “And how do we make Cultural Revolution?” “By destroying the American family!” “How do we destroy the family?” “By destroying the American Patriarch,” they cried exuberantly. “And how do we destroy the American Patriarch?” the leader replied. “By taking away his power!” “How do we do that?” “By destroying monogamy!” they shouted. “How can we destroy monogamy?” “By promoting promiscuity, eroticism, prostitution, and homosexuality!”23 The goal of the sexual revolution was a complete leveling of authority. The adherents of the sexual revolution didn’t really hate men. They hated hierarchy. They hated order and objectivity. They did not hate fathers; they hated the Father. The agenda of the sexual revolutionaries is often lost on Christians. For example, a very prominent Southern Baptist pastor recently said in a message on homosexuality that to be like Jesus, “churches must be known as the friends of the LGBT community.” It is just here that our present challenge comes into high relief. Christians should certainly be friendly to LGBT people. Jesus was a friend of sinners. My family and I have had homosexual neighbors with whom we enjoyed a friendly relationship. But my concern is the claim that “churches must be known as friends to the LGBT community.” In our times, there is a world of difference between being a friend and being recognized as a friend by those who don’t know Christ. If your goal is to be known as a friend, you may end up being no real friend at all.

The virus doesn’t herald the end of the world, or of the United States, or even of the commonwealth of Massachusetts. In the coming days, conditions will continue to deteriorate. Emergency services and other public safety nets will be stretched to their breaking points, exacerbated by the wily antagonists of fear, panic, misinformation; a myopic, sluggish federal bureaucracy further hamstrung by a president unwilling and woefully unequipped to make the rational, science-based decisions necessary; and exacerbated, of course, by plain old individual everyday evil. But there will be many heroes, too, including ones who don’t view themselves as such.

Why did Schultz turn out so different from all the other kids on that playground? Some of his old classmates are today cops and firemen in Brooklyn. Others are in prison. Schultz is worth more than $1 billion. He’s been heralded as one of the greatest CEOs of the twentieth century. Where did he find the determination—the willpower—to climb from a housing project to a private jet? “I don’t really know,” he told me. “My mom always said, ‘You’re going to be the first person to go to college, you’re going to be a professional, you’re going to make us all proud.’ She would ask these little questions, ‘How are you going to study tonight? What are you going to do tomorrow? How do you know you’re ready for your test?’ It trained me to set goals. “I’ve been really lucky,” he said. “And I really, genuinely believe that if you tell people that they have what it takes to succeed, they’ll prove you right.

Everywhere a sudden light shone down. The all-type cover of New York’s Christmas issue harked and heralded the news that “NEW YORK IS BACK.” “The death of this city has been declared so often,” it read, “that almost no one realizes life here is actually getting better—safer, nicer, tastier, cheaper, snazzier, more sensible and exciting than it’s been in years. Who knew?” Inside, the “celebration of the new, improved metropolis” began “Admit it: You’ve been feeling better, but don’t know why,” though it certainly hinted by naming Rudy himself one of the thirty-eight “new, improved” things about New York: “Rudy Giuliani’s first year as mayor, though far from perfect, has been so eventful, so thrillingly New Paradigmatic that the Dinkins administration seems even less accomplished in memory than it was in fact.” Yet out of the thirty-seven other reasons cited, little was new or in any way related to Giuliani. From Times Square, Chelsea Piers, and Bryant Park to better subways, bustling flea markets, and a wave of coffeehouses, this sudden awakening was the result of policies, plans, and battles of prior administrations and the tireless efforts of individuals who’d fought and labored with their fellow New Yorkers for more than a decade.

Superstring theory in the thirteenth century?!” Katherine wasn’t buying it. “Come on!” Superstring theory was a brand-new cosmological model. Based on the most recent scientific observations, it suggested the multidimensional universe was made up not of three . . . but rather of ten dimensions, which all interacted like vibrating strings, similar to resonating violin strings. Katherine waited as her brother heaved open the book, ran through the ornately printed table of contents, and then flipped to a spot near the beginning of the book. “Read this.” He pointed to a faded page of text and diagrams. Dutifully, Katherine studied the page. The translation was old-fashioned and very hard to read, but to her utter amazement, the text and drawings clearly outlined the exact same universe heralded by modern superstring theory—a ten-dimensional universe of resonating strings. As she continued reading, she suddenly gasped and recoiled. “My God, it even describes how six of the dimensions are entangled and act as one?!” She took a frightened step backward. “What is this book?!” Her brother grinned. “Something I’m hoping you’ll read one day.” He flipped back to the title page, where an ornately printed plate bore three words. The Complete Zohar. Although Katherine had never read the Zohar, she knew it was the fundamental text of early Jewish mysticism, once believed so potent that it was reserved only for the most erudite rabbis. Katherine eyed the book. “You’re saying the early mystics knew their universe had ten dimensions?” “Absolutely.” He motioned to the page’s illustration of ten intertwined circles called Sephiroth. “Obviously, the nomenclature is esoteric, but the physics is very advanced.” Katherine didn’t know how to respond. “But . . . then why don’t more people study this?” Her brother smiled. “They will.” “I don’t understand.” “Katherine, we have been born into wonderful times. A change is coming. Human beings are poised on the threshold of a new age when they will begin turning their eyes back to nature and to the old ways . . . back to the ideas in books like the Zohar and other ancient texts from around the world. Powerful truth has its own gravity and eventually pulls people back to it. There will come a day when modern science begins in earnest to study the wisdom of the ancients . . . that will be the day that mankind begins to find answers to the big questions that still elude him.

I told you, I’m not there yet! Touching an Icon is not as easy as you made it look.” “She’s almost there,” Yerin said confidently. “I’m not!” “She’ll be taking her pick of Sage or Herald. Can’t lie and say I’m not concerned about Orthos and Blue, but I don’t have an ounce of worry about her.” “Worry about me!

Don’t divide your party, no matter how much more efficient it might seem, always check to make sure your equipment is working, and never go off on your own without making sure someone else knows where you are going.

But don’t forget that you’re the one that vouched for her so if she causes trouble that’s going to blow back on you.” “Oh, please,” Cassia scoffed while staring at the list. “As if I would leave witnesses. I’m not an idiot.

He leaned down and kissed the petite elf on the forehead. “I love you. Please don’t assemble an army.” “I love you too Herald Frost,” Renna said. “Don’t make me assemble an army.

Herald Frost,” Herald Law glared murderously at him. “I’m sure you realize that if I am to let your friends go, I will want something in return.” “I figured that was the reason you took them,” Frost said, grinning at the true face of Herald Law. Any semblance of gentility washed away, allowing his hatred to shine through. “People don’t take hostages unless they want something.” “You’re not a complete fool then,” Herald Law said. “Just a disgusting deviant.

I didn’t want to say anything but last night I went and snacked on Elias again…” “Don’t call your food by its name,” Frost said, shaking his head. “And you know the rule.” “No kisses for twenty-four hours after I’ve eaten a person,” Desdemona said despondently while hanging her head. “I know.

Did she?” “It was in The Herald,” she confided. “Apparently you can’t move for Chinese lads these days. I don’t know what’s happening at all. You’d be afraid to go out at night.

dressed… oddly. He nodded hello but pecked at a terminal behind the counter like he was wrapping something up. Jason examined Pierre with an eagerness that matched Pierre’s inspection of him, once he turned his full attention away from the terminal. He looked so pleased to see Pierre that for the first time he regretted dressing up to travel. He hadn’t considered that an affluent appearance might hamper his ability to negotiate terms of a financial transaction. Most of the time dressing well led to a degree of deference and better treatment. Jason however was regarding him like a prize steer that would soon be select cuts of beef. “Good day,” Pierre said, and tried to keep a pleasant face and made an attempt at humor. “Are you the Jason of fame, heralded by your establishment’s signage?” “I wouldn’t hire another Jason,” the fellow said bluntly. “If one wanted to hire on I suppose I might, if he let me call him George. Life’s perplexing enough without feeling like I’ve slipped into speaking in the third person every day. Fortunately there’s little enough to distract me on ISSII to make it a burden to keep the doors open without help. It’s like a very quiet little town.” “Indeed, I noticed the lack of a crowd in the corridor,” Pierre agreed. “Been that way since the war, and it’s been slow to come back all the way. But I figure in another five years, maybe six years it’ll be hopping again.” Pierre nodded politely. He’d really like to know why the fellow thought so, but he’d leave it for another time rather than neglect his business. “I wonder, if you might do currency exchanges among your services? I find the shuttle service I wish to take to Home doesn’t take EuroMarks. I’d like something they take, preferably Solars to facilitate other payments when I reach Home or beyond.” “I wouldn’t mind a bucket of them myself,” Jason allowed. “But for most transactions they’re a bit unwieldy. A full Solar is twenty five grams of gold or platinum. Most folks use the smaller coins and bits or a credit card that can shave transactions down to the milligram.” “What would you suggest? I have EuroMark credit, banknotes, and a small amount of Suisse Credit bars. What would be easiest?” “Not that I don’t want the business, but I’m too little a fish to risk handling a large sum of EuroMarks with currency fluctuations being what they are. EMs are depreciating assets anyway. Now, I’d take your gold if you were staying here, but the banks on Home will give you a much better conversion rate, and I’d rather you not be pissed off at me and tell everybody to avoid the scoundrel on ISSII after you found that out. I know the exchange rate looks bad but go back to the Russians and tell them you want to convert your EuroMarks to Australian dollars - they’ll do that. The gold, it don’t matter, it’s not going to fluctuate in value very much. If you finish up your business and want to take any of it back to France you can’t take it as Solars and you’d have to pay for a second exchange.” “I never said I was French, nor did I mention speaking with the Russians.” “I hear your vowels and can place your province if not your town under that fancy Parisian accent. It’s five hundred and twenty of my steps from here to the bank and Peter called and told me you were on your way. As I said, it’s like a small town here. If you sneeze

My father is at the end of the table, reading three newspapers at once. We might be the only people who still get the paper delivered—singlehandedly keeping the Tribune and the Herald in business. “I can get those on your iPad,” I tell Papa. “I don’t like the iPad,” he says, stubbornly.